


The Mighty Fall

by koakuma_tsuri



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Infidelity, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Questioning Sexuality, casual sex arrangement, casual sex gone wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koakuma_tsuri/pseuds/koakuma_tsuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a mistake at a hotel and they have to share a room. It doesn't have to go anywhere, but Kevin starts to notice how attractive Alastair really is. It ends up way out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AKA an 'origin' story for all my future Cookersens unless otherwise stated.

The door slams and Kevin throws his bag into the far corner of the room. Only the _far corner_ isn’t that far away at all. It’s six metres at most; though it looks smaller from the furniture that lines all but one of the four walls. And the beds…pushed together so tightly that they appear as one large king. Perhaps fine for the others, especially Swann and Anderson who were fine top and tailing in a single if needs be, but not for Kevin. Not when he is sharing with the Captain who spends more time in everyone’s rooms but his own.

Kevin can still hear the echo of his _‘I’m meant to be on my own!’_ to the coach and it’s entirely possible with how loud he had shouted. Everyone in the hall of reception had turned to him: the strangers surprised and the squad apathetic. No one spoke out, being more than used to turning a blind eye to Alastair’s habits and behaviour. Some chose to live in ignorance, some condoned and some participated. Kevin never bothered or wanted to know who fell under which category. All he knew was that Cook would be sleeping in the bed _just beside him_. His Captain with a seemingly insatiable appetite for cock.

He is a good captain; he has proven himself and Kevin follows his direction with only half-arsed grumbles but the rumours that Alastair had earned the position on his back never diminish.  It has never really bothered Kevin before. He could brush the comments off because he had never _caught_ Alastair in the act and could sometimes pretend that his homosexual exploits were just defamatory jabs to soil his reputation. But Alastair had never shared a room with him before. Never slept in the bed _just beside him_.

And then the door opens and Alastair stands there, bags in his hands and an exasperated expression upon his face. He might be offended by Kevin’s attitude, but it doesn’t show. “If it’s too much trouble, I’ll swap with Trotty.”

Kevin stares for three seconds before to turns back to those beds, accessing his options. As tempting as it is, there are heavy cons. Taking the easy route out would not only single him out as an even bigger, more immature idiot than the world already thinks he is, but fuel the fire that is the squad mocking him for being a diva. And it would make things awkward with Alastair during matches. If they end up batting together, they need to trust each other completely, let alone _like_ each other. Kevin bites his tongue and shakes his head.

“I’m sure I’ll live,” he catches relief on Alastair’s face from the corner of his eye. But he doesn’t want to get the Englishman’s hopes up just like he doesn’t want to give him any sort of idea. “So long as you and your hands stay on that side of the room.”

Alastair nods with a little sigh and drops his bags onto the bed that Kevin points to. The South African starts to pull at his own, opening up a distance of a foot and a half before perching on the end of it.

“You know, I thought you were fine with it,” Alastair works around the room, neatly placing his bags in a corner and setting everything he needs for the next few days where they need to be.

Kevin only responds with a dismissive grunt and the Captain leaves him to fester and begin to feel that somehow he is in the wrong. As the initial tantrum dies down, he cannot really understand why he is so against the Englishman sharing the room. Alastair had never tried anything on with him before – in fact, it wasn’t until Kevin had walked into a room where Alastair was rubbing his jaw like it was sore and Strauss looked rather quite flushed that he started to put the dots together.  Graeme had laughed at his expression when he slid back into the room where the other players were and commented that if he spent half the time observing the team as he did his reflection, then Kevin would not have been so shocked.

Even after he had finished unpacking, Alastair reclines on his bed with a book, completely disinterested. Hardly the lustful predator that Kevin’s earlier outburst seemed to imagine. Perhaps the threat is one purely based on a misunderstanding, or at least just not being able to understand at all. Alastair is such a talented person that Kevin just cannot see why he needs to do the things he apparently does. Or if it truly is just personal preference and enjoyment.

“Can I ask you a question?” The South African says gently and turns his upper body just a little to appear genuinely curious, if a little cautious.

Alastair lowers his book and nods. He must know what’s coming because he doesn’t make an effort to look happy with the fact Kevin is _talking_ to him.

“...You’re married... so why do you...?”

A little smile quirks at Alastair’s lips and he dogears the page he’s on and puts the book down. “I grew up with Alice, she understands,” he shrugs.

Kevin frowns, turning to face the wall again. It is an answer he cannot quite understand, but it answers the latter of his questions, at least. “So, with guys it’s just fun?”

“Yeah.”

He glances back and Alastair’s reading again. There’s a certain air to his reply that feels like he is keeping his answers simple. Yet, he is not really the type of guy who carries secrets. That much is obvious in his candour when asked forthright if he had just blown their former captain.

“Do you love her?”

Those dark eyes flick up momentarily, not quite surprised but curious as to the concern that seems to leech through Kevin’s gentle tone. “Yes, but... _differently_ ,” Alastair returns to his book with his thick eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Oh,” Kevin blinks and scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. It is a coldness he has never really experienced from the Englishman before. But he supposes he deserves it. He resents it, but deserves it. Because he _does_ understand. Of course he knows what it’s like. He had been in happy relationships before, yet yearned for something more. The more he thinks about it, the more he reminisces times before his own marriage.

And the more he reminisces, the more he yearns.

The feeling is wholly disgusting, deplorable and he hates himself to thinking it – maybe even hates Alastair a little for starting it. For the first time, the threat in the room is more from himself than Alastair and Kevin feels as if he’s being poisoned.

“I’m gonna... go see Andy; see what’s happening about tomorrow.”

He is up and out of the room before Alastair can even mumble his response to the obvious excuse.

\--

Dinner is a reprieve that Kevin wishes will never end. They have the main function room of the hotel they’re staying in to themselves. It is large and, with Swann and Anderson playing off each other as they always do, charged with excitement for the upcoming match. Alastair sits across the room with the coaches and only occasionally does Kevin glance at him – eyes cast in a glower that no one on his table dares to question.

That yearning previously felt has lessened somewhat. Removing himself from the room and Alastair’s company, he had rung Jessica and spoken to his son; reminding himself of what he loves and reaffirming that _nothing_ would take that from him.

After they had finished eating and were slowly siphoning off to their rooms, Kevin follows Jonathan and Matt up to their room on the pretence of a chat over whatever film is on the TV. Truth is, Alastair is still talking to the coaches and Kevin far prefers the thought of going to bed when the Captain is already asleep than vice versa.

The movie they find is some atrocious romantic comedy that lacks almost any semblance of either genre but their banter makes up for its lack of entertainment. Very little of what is said holds any importance so it is jarring when Prior suddenly comes out with, “He’s not going to molest you, you know?”

Kevin stares at him blankly whilst Jonathan just pouts an agreement. “How do _you_ know that?” he laughs like it’s a joke, but the doubt is still there.

Jonathan scoffs and slides off his bed to go to the bathroom. He leaves the door open, but since it’s round the corner, neither of them mind. “Does he _look_ like some rapist to you?” he mumbles from the adjacent room.

From his place in one of the two chairs in the room, Kevin just snorts and throws himself backwards. No, he doesn’t suppose Cook would try anything. He knows he wouldn’t. As he noticed before, there’s never been anything untoward directed at him, so why should the Captain do so now? Especially after how Kevin had acted towards him.

“You’re just... not his type.”

“What?” Kevin looks towards the wicketkeeper, frowning and a little amused. It explained just _why_ Alastair had never tried anything with him before.

Prior just shrugs a little and rubs his palm against one prickly cheek, smiling. “He likes pretty boys.”

“And you are _not_ pretty,” chortles Trott to himself.

 --

Returning to his room sometime vaguely before 11pm, Kevin finds the main light in the room still on. And Alastair is sat on his bed reading the same book as before. Upon hearing the South African walk in, he looks up and smiles. His friendly, usual, _I’m your Captain and I trust you_ smile.

“Ready for tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles as he walks into the bathroom. As he stands to wash and clean his teeth, Matt’s words replay in his head. He has _nothing_ to worry about. So he should stop treating his civil Captain like some 6-foot cobra. He spits out the toothpaste and continues in a more sociable tone, “The crowds down here tend to be great.”

He hears Alastair chuckle and hears movement like the Englishman has gotten up from bed. “Let’s just hope the Kiwis let you entertain them then.”

Kevin walks into the main room, smiling and anticipating what kind of show he can put on tomorrow; all the strokes and sweeps and ways to keep the pitch lively and the dressing room fired up. It both excites and calms him, because for a moment, things with Alastair are as normal as it feels sitting up in the dressing room with him, watching their teammates get their runs.

“Thanks,” he replies at length and turns to his Captain to show just how genuinely it is meant.

The smile Alastair gives him is warm and feels as if it brightens up the room. But it was probably just the lights bouncing off his perfectly white teeth. But it also glitters in his eyes a mirth and contentment than Kevin thinks a little _too_ much for just a simple encouragement. It is the kind of smile he’s seen from women before. And then he starts to doubt Prior again.

With a finger pointed at the Englishman, but spoken with an upwards twist to his lips, Kevin warns, “If I wake up and you’re on my dick, I will—”

“Don’t worry, there’s no chance of that,” Alastair retorts flatly and with a seriousness that Kevin hasn’t seen since the Captain allowed him to rejoin the England squad. He turns on his heels and strides into the bathroom.

Kevin stands, dumbstruck and frowning, watching the space where Alastair had been as if the Captain had suddenly turned invisible. Such a change from only a minute ago! That minute when Alastair had smiled at him almost _flirtatiously_ and now he was being _rejected_? He stalks up to the bathroom door, hands grasping the rough wooden frame. “Why not?”  

Stopping brushing his teeth a few seconds after the words sounded, Alastair turns to the South African with his thick eyebrows furrowed. “’cuse me?”

“Why wouldn’t you blow me?” Kevin repeats the question and is internally surprised with himself that he manages to without scowling or spitting it out. In fact, he finds himself curious and offended. And that frightens him.

It terrifies him that he even _thought_ of it to _say_ it.

But he isn’t thinking of it.

He _isn’t_.

The Captain’s white-foamed lips quirk upwards in complete bemusement. He leans down and spits enough toothpaste out to talk. “You’re _you_ ,” he starts and turns to lean against the grey marble plinth. “And you’re straight.”

“But what if I…” Kevin trails off when he realises what an idiot he’s being. There’s a glint he catches in Alastair’s eye of something he doesn’t understand but it feels like a mockery. Perhaps he only thinks that Kevin is playing some game, or perhaps he is relishing in dragging another player down into a sordid mess, taking every principle Kevin has and twisting it to his own whimsy.

“What if you…?” The Captain’s head tilts and those dark eyes scour Kevin’s face in a way that makes him uncomfortable. “Want me to?”

Kevin says nothing, feeling much like how he supposes the baby gazelle he once saw on a safari felt when it found itself surrounded by a pride of lions. And he knows that there is no escape from such a question. Even if he left it unanswered, it would reverberate in his head as he bats and be more deadly than any sledge any Australian could come up with.

It is a moment of a few minutes before Alastair sighs and shrugs. He turns his head to stare at the shower as if it is more interesting. He’s not quite so nonchalant as simply undecided. He has been caught off guard with a hypothesis he could have never expected. But somewhere on that face, there’s something else. “Get some rest, KP. You’re tired.”

Kevin hesitates for a moment before he nods and returns to his bedside, stripping off his outer clothes as he went. He settles rod-straight in bed, silent in his turmoil. When Alastair emerges from the bathroom with his shirt in hand, Kevin tries to avert his eyes. He has seen the Captain in all forms of undress in dressing rooms and hotels and gyms through the years, but now his eyes pick up every minute detail of the Englishman’s form. The dark hairs and subtle muscle definition. He is slender and lithe, and elegant in his bone structure in the weirdest of ways.

Kevin can suddenly see why men and women alike find him attractive.

And at that revelation, he forces himself to roll over and face the wall.


	2. Chapter II

The next day, Alastair barely talks to him and Kevin is grateful of it. Although, in a way, it makes him even worse. Because in Alastair _not_ talking to him, Kevin has no way of justifying the intensity and frequency at which he finds himself watching and looking at the Captain. The thoughts barely change from the night before. Alastair is just as attractive in his gear as he is out of it. He is eyecatching in white and enchantingly dominant in his control of every stroke. The concentration he puts into batting makes his lips pull tight and his cheek muscles throb and accentuate the sharp angle of his jaw. Kevin finds himself fantasising how that face would look without inhibition; when his eyes can’t focus, heavy under those thick dark lashes.

Root gets bowled out for 67 and Kevin starts to get restless. He fidgets, tapping his hands against his thighs where it was less likely to be seen by cameras or his teammates. Though he gets his pads on and ready, he dreads the moment when Jonathan gets out, because he knows that it will be _him_ , _there_ , with Alastair. Like a teenager first discovering _hormones_ , he forgets what self-control is, and knows that if the cameras don’t pick up his discomfort, the Captain most certainly will. And after last night’s conversation, Alastair will just know what’s wrong. He can only hope – selfishly – that Cook gets out first.

There’s a modicum of relief when Alastair falls to an lbw, and Kevin tries to cling to that smallest of measures amongst the disappointment that he fell just short of 100. Disappointment that he is no longer able to watch the artistry of their captain batting.   

“Good luck,” Alastair says as they pass each other on their way to and from the crease. Customary and civil, but there is also a warmth in there that reflects an understanding of Kevin’s desire to entertain. The Captain means for him to enjoy himself, not play just so that the team can win.

The words fuel the fire of adrenaline in Kevin’s gut. Suddenly, it is not just the crowd he realises he wants to impress. Nodding his head sharply in acknowledgement, he hides his face until he can rein in enough of his expression to look utterly calm to the ball and cameras he must now face.

And when he reaches 50, and the subsequent 100, Kevin looks up to the dressing room and the only thing he sees amongst the sea of bodies is Alastair standing, applauding, and grinning.

They finish the day on 362 and the atmosphere back at the hotel is electric. Everyone is buzzing, looking forwards to the next day and finishing their innings only to wipe the floor with their commonwealth opponents immediately afterwards.

Kevin laps up the conversation and the praise that passes around his table. He almost forgets about the train of thought he had been suffering the entire day until a hand settles on his shoulder and he turns to find Alastair stood behind him.

“Great work today, KP.”

There’s that smile again, with those eyes. Kevin stares for a moment, mentally noting from this angle the length of Alastair’s neck, its sunkissed skin, and the stubble that takes such a youthful face into masculinity.

“Thanks,” he finally grins and quickly turns back to the table and his drink just in case colour tints his cheeks.

The Captain squeezes his shoulder – _it’s familial, familial –_ before wandering off out of the function room.

After dinner, Kevin finds every excuse in the book to stay in Jonathan and Matt’s room. The subject of Alastair is completely avoided. They don’t bring him up because they figure _what’s the point_ and Kevin is glad because it means they have no idea of his inner chaos. Any comment he could make about the Captain stood a chance of exposing his newfound bias, or could betray the attraction that he denies he feels.

An hour passes and his fellow South Africans share glances and mouthed words until Kevin gets the idea that he has long outstayed his welcome. Getting up, he bids them a good night and threatens Prior that he better not get out within an hour of the start of play tomorrow.

The bedroom is dark when Kevin quietly opens the door. He gets his phone out for a little illumination on his way to his bed. He can’t hear any movement, but then he doesn’t know enough of Alastair to know how deeply he sleeps. He also doesn’t hear any breathing. As soon as he reaches his bedside, he flicks on the lamp and finds the room empty. Alastair’s bed is still pristine from where the housekeepers had been in during the day to refresh the room.

Kevin doesn’t panic. He doesn’t wonder. Because he knows the Captain is sharing a bed with someone else that night. He doesn’t try to think of who. He just slides under his own duvet, staring at the ceiling and yearns for his mind to be as blank as the whitewash. But his teeth grind; jaw clenching when he thinks back of Alastair’s behaviour just before he retired for the night. He feels… betrayed.

\--

That thought continues on the next day. Kevin settles to the far end of the balcony from Alastair, who looked both surprised and disconcerted when he jerked away from the Captain’s touch. What could he expect? Coming back in the early hours, stinking of sex and someone else’s cologne and not even _bothering_ to shower, leaving Kevin to breathe in that air until morning.

Their innings finish and Kevin is almost the first back into the dressing room and ready to start fielding. Ambitions of Mid On fill his thoughts and are ultimately quashed when Alastair instructs him to Fine Leg. Kevin protests and receives nothing but a sharp look that is even more assertive on that face with _that_ jawline. He cannot argue even if there wasn’t some stupid little part of him still fawning over the Captain.

Fielding turns into festering. The ball seldom comes his way, and Cook is almost right in his line of sight. Bent over, nonetheless, and frequently exchanges words and his handsome beams to Root at his side. Kevin’s gut twists with something he knows only too well. Thankfully, he can hide his glaring scowls behind his sunglasses and the bright sun itself.

But there’s nothing to hide behind at Dinner, when Alastair’s laughing loudly because Graeme’s still high off getting his fifer and is rolling off his usual party piece of impersonations. There is only so much Kevin can take, and as soon as he’s finished his meal, he gets up and nigh-on storms out the room. At least he has a reputation that means no one follows him to see what’s troubling him.

With Trott and Prior still socialising, and whoever had already gone up to their rooms no doubt sneaking in some Xbox before bed, Kevin isn’t sure where to go. He considers finding a quiet place to sit outside, whilst the summer weather makes the evenings rather pleasant, to call his wife, but the very thought feels sickeningly wrong. Using her as a distraction for a _man_ … so horribly despicable.

Instead, he finds himself wandering the length of the hotel grounds. Dimly lit footpaths lead a neat trail through a wood. With no one else around, it’s like being in the middle of nowhere; lost with only his thoughts for company. After an hour, he is back at the hotel entrance, and after an hour, he feels no different. But he has reached the conclusion that he will no longer allow Alastair this control over him – be it conscious or not.

But confronting the Captain is a much easier task to think than to complete. He does not even know how to address it. There’s a hope that maybe getting whatever _attraction_ it is off his chest will mean he can just forget it. Perhaps Alastair would even stand and laugh at him for an age, meaning that the South African can focus more on hating the Captain than admiring. More than _wanting_.

Kevin paces the corridor outside their room for at least five more minutes before finally sliding the keycard in and opening the door in jerky, anxious movements. The lights are on and Alastair reclines on his bed reading. He wears loose pyjama-like trousers that barely just cling to his lean hips and a vest that clings to all of his muscles.

Lowering the book, the Englishman gives him that damned smile again and Kevin’s hands ball into tight fists. All the times he’s seen it, it never fails in its intentions. He knows that’s the mouth that had been around their most former captain, no doubt as skilled as it is pretty.

Kevin can’t believe he’s thinking it. Can’t believe he’s imagining Alastair and Andrew with such curiousness and…something a little like anticipation.

“I was wondering where you—”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Kevin spews out. His voice is strained and he can’t even meet Alastair’s eyes. The wooden headboard the Captain leans against offers nothing to focus on, so the change in Alastair’s expression is unmissable. It’s confusion and surprise and _something else_.

“Suck you off?” Alastair asks gently, coyly. He calmly places his book on the bedside cabinet and Kevin leans back against the far wall, just watching as the Englishman gets up. His muscles ripple like those of a tiger, fluid and sleek and utterly entrancing. He might look like a predator, but it’s Kevin who feels like lunging. Feels like raking tooth and nail over all that flesh, exploiting and consuming to quell the burning hunger that rages lower than his stomach.

Alastair doesn’t speak again, as if he wants to hear Kevin openly admit to his desires. It makes him feel like a demanding teenager, whining to a selfish girlfriend who takes with no thought of giving. The South African’s hands clench tighter until his nails bite into his own palms. But he will not _rise_ to that mischievous glimmer in Cook’s dark eyes. Because if he says it, Alastair will laugh and reject him and he would have lost his sense of himself all for nothing.

“Is it that I’m not your type?”

That pretty mouth twists again, one side curved up sharply. “And what _is_ my type, Kev?”

Shrugging, Kevin finds himself at a loss for words. Alastair’s usually cool intonation is now a purr that steals away any rational thought he thinks himself capable of.

“Confident,” Alastair says and those dark eyes are absolutely black in their unfathomable depth. They focus only on him, but they wander. Kevin feels like that trapped gazelle again. “Dominant, assertive, powerful.”

Each word carefully chosen or true, it doesn’t matter because they make Kevin’s throat tighten and his heart race.

“So really,” Alastair smirks and takes one step closer. The movement is fatally composed and Kevin knows its purpose. He has seen women move in a similar way, but nothing about Cook is effeminate. It’s just sexual experience bordering on conceit that knows every aspect of temptation. And Alastair seems like the type of person who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. That’s the only conclusion Kevin has ever reached about just how Alastair got Strauss in his little black book. “This takes us back to the original question: do you want me to?”

For the first time in a long while, Kevin’s mind is clear. Clear of all but one word. “Yes,” he replies. It’s not strong, but it’s sure.

Cook smirks again and when he blinks, Kevin lunges forwards and takes fistfuls of soft black hair to yank Alastair’s head up to crush their mouths together. Of all the things he expected, Kevin is greeted with a surprise. Alastair doesn’t question, doesn’t struggle or pull away to mock, but hums subdued pleasure and _yields_ to the physical contact. His long fingers curl around the hem of Kevin’s shirt and tugs impatiently to draw him closer.

The kiss is short lived as Kevin pulls back just a little – less than an inch – and breathes heavily through his nose. Already, he feels like he’s fighting a war and adrenaline makes every nerve tingle, making every sensation much more lucid than he’s ever experienced before. He drinks in the contact with his captain for a minute, running his fingers through thick hair and thumbing the sharp curve of his jaw with the other, Cook is obviously, unavoidably, masculine, and Kevin is anything but repulsed.

Alastair’s hands palm his hips, pushing his shirt up and away from his waist as he manhandles him to perch on the edge of the bed. Their mouths never move any further apart, and Alastair’s light dusting of stubble rasps on Kevin’s chin. It’s such a strange feeling when he had only ever kissed women; a little ticklish, but an ultimately pleasant one, so he tilts his head again to catch Alastair’s full lips once more.

And Cook’s the first one to progress the kiss; his tongue swipes the seam of Kevin’s lips.  A simple action for permission feels like a demand. He’s just about to open his mouth when he feels Alastair’s fingers locating and loosening his belt.

“You’re eager,” Kevin mutters with a wry grin, resting his forehead against the Captain’s.

Alastair takes the lazy chastisement like an incorrigible child and never stops his slender fingers pulling the leather belt free from the buckle. “I’ve waited so fucking long for this,” he says in an urgent whisper. His dark eyes are heavily lidded, but still focus solely on Kevin’s face as if looking for any semblance of reluctance. Then he slides his left hand into the batsman’s jeans and lightly squeezes the bulge starting to grow there. The other wrestles the trousers down his thighs. “Too fucking long.”

Kevin hisses in a breath, canting his hips up already to that simplest of ministrations. But it’s not quite enough to distract him from Alastair’s words. Nothing could, really. “You, _what—_?”

Lips twisting into a smirk again, Alastair momentarily leans forwards for a chaste, effectively silencing kiss. “I’ve wanted you for a while,” comes a gentle murmur, and his hand starts to rub and massage Kevin’s cock through his boxers.   

It’s been a while since Kevin’s felt pleasure of such a kind, so it comes on strongly. He reclines back on the mattress, propping himself up with one arm, whilst the other slides down from Alastair’s hair to trace his jaw and lips. Half his mind is just as eager as the Captain, already imagining that mouth around his length whilst the other hangs on the confession. “You…you never said anything.”

“And what would you have done if I did?”

Kevin tilts his head at the question that Alastair offers, still with that grin of excitement. And still with his hand on his cock. For a second he glances down and sees how the Englishman is also growing aroused.

“You would’ve punched my face in, I bet,” Alastair continues, light-hearted and leans down to nip his teeth at Kevin’s chin and throat. He’s too busy enjoying such little flares of pain to really realise that Alastair is lowering himself to his knees. When he does notice, it’s when two hands are on his thighs, pushing his legs apart enough to accommodate the Captain’s broad shoulders.

“I still might,” he says. Threading his hand back into Alastair’s hair, Kevin gently tugs him closer. His cock is throbbing just from the sight of him, all narrowed eyes and flushed cheeks. He’s so beautiful and it’s impossible to think how a few days before, Kevin would have used anything but that word to describe him.

Alastair wets his lips, looking up at the South African through his thick lashes and replies, “I don’t think you will.”

Kevin watches with a smirk as Alastair pulls his cock out from its confines and immediately runs his hands along the rigid length of it. They feel cool, especially in contrast to the warm breath that rinses over him. And all Alastair does for a minute is toy with him like this. Never quite pumping or even stroking, but teasing little brushes that both infuriate Kevin and ensure that he is so very turned on. “Fuck’s sake, Ali,” he hisses and pulls him closer by his hair.

Chuckling, Alastair wraps his left hand around the base of Kevin’s cock and presses his lips to the tip. And he kisses it like they hadn’t actually gotten round to kissing. Mouth open and tongue twisting, wet sounds of saliva and languorous hums come from that gorgeous face. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Kevin groans. His head rolls back on his shoulders, supported only by his left hand that fists into the bed sheets. Alastair moves closer, shuffling between his legs to raise up a little, in order to take more of Kevin’s shaft into his mouth. The South African’s gaze snaps back to him immediately, hungrily lapping up the sight of his Captain stretching his lips around his cock, hollowed cheeks and looking so completely ravenous as he keeps on taking. “This is a good look for you.”

Alastair glances up and is able to smile just a little. But it’s when he hums that Kevin realises that he likes to be _watched_ as he sucks cock. Because Alastair’s entire face just contorts to the pleasure he vocalises. Kevin feels like he has missed out never seeing it before. And a flare of jealousy burns when he thinks just how many people had. In no way is Alastair an amateur in this. In fact, he seems more experienced and skilled than some girls Kevin had let entertain him in the past.

Cook bobs in a consistent rhythm; caressing what he neglects in turn and is sure to change pace and vigour so that Kevin doesn’t climax too soon. It drives him mad, because as much as he wants to come, he also doesn’t want to finish.

Kevin curses under his breath, biting back grunts and moans as the sensations build and bubble in his gut. The heat grows unbearable and he hunches over Alastair. “I’m gonna— _Ugh_ ,”

Alastair reacts accordingly to the warning, sliding back to the head of Kevin’s cock and sucks hard as he comes. It’s a blinding thing that steals all but the sensation of touch. He’s much too sensitive and shivers as Alastair milks him for all he’s got. Kevin falls back to the mattress, utterly boneless. His head hangs over the other side, where he had pushed the beds apart. He knows he’s grinning like a satisfied schoolboy after his first blowjob, and feels a bit like it too. It was his first…in a manner.

He hears Alastair spitting out his seed and sees him cast the tissue containing it into the bin. The Captain doesn’t move away, but stand to lean over the bed and trail his hands up Kevin’s body, under his shirt to tease around his pert nipples.

“Still want to punch me?”                                        

Kevin chuckles lazily and bats Alastair’s hands away. “Sod off.”

Laughing, the Englishman wanders into the bathroom. Kevin takes a moment to catch his breath and let all the tingles in every nerve die back down. He then packs himself back into his boxers; kicks off his jeans completely and gets up to put them across the room.

Alastair returns with an expression like an especially smug feline. He settles back down on his bed, much the same as he had been when Kevin first walked in, only the book remains on the cabinet beside him. And Alastair’s erection is still event within his trousers.

Kevin isn’t so selfish that he ignores it.

“Do you want me to, um, well,” he gestures awkwardly to Alastair’s crotch and feels like he’s blushing. “Give you a…hand?” Utterly embarrassing, but Alastair just smiles warmly.

“Not if you don’t want to.”

It takes him by surprise, because it’s hardly the demanding, lustful Cook of only a few minutes ago. In fact, such a response feels more like he is speaking to Alastair in the dressing room and… Kevin feels completely _comfortable_. And it’s not just lingering contentment from his orgasm, but a feeling that nothing had changed between them. Though, if it had, it felt like it was for the better. There was no longer any hint of resentment or fear for their lascivious Captain. There was no longer any inner conflict and need to hide. The honesty bred new trust and understanding.

“I want to,” Kevin replied, this time, both strong and sure.

“Well then,” Alastair holds his hand out and spreads his legs in a needless invitation. The sight dries Kevin’s mouth almost completely. He’s utterly satisfied yet wants to see more of Alastair like this, appearing submissive but still completely in control.

He does not take the Englishman’s hand as he settles to kneel on the mattress. “I don’t need to be _taught_.”

“Good,” Alastair drawls back with the sneer that was once somewhat infuriating and was now becoming sexier each time it makes an appearance. Reaching up, he curls his fingers around the back of Kevin’s neck and draws him down for a kiss.

The South African lacks all shyness, now feeling somewhat used to kissing his captain but also not wanting to be seen as backing down or out when he had made such a cock-sure statement. And he certainly does not want to stop when the moment he lays a hand on Alastair’s concealed hardness, the most delightful of gasps slips between their lips.

Kevin seizes the opportunity he had previously missed and barrels his tongue into Alastair’s mouth. It tingles with his intense-mint toothpaste: a cool edge and a taste Kevin relishes and he tries all the things he usually does with women. But unlike them, the Captain is ever hesitant to relinquish his rule. The kiss is rough; more reminiscent of devouring than pleasing and both of them grunt around each other’s tongue. He pushes Alastair’s shirt up his torso, bunching up under his arms and brushes his fingers over an exposed nipple and the Captain _mewls_.

Smirking, Kevin presses harder on Alastair’s bulge, rubbing and squeezing as he himself had been treated. But he reveals no such eagerness to have the cock out in the open. It’s a simple gesture of teasing, maybe even revenge for Alastair never confessing his desires. Revenge for him taking so long in doing whatever he did to Kevin’s mind. He still can’t comprehend it himself, how quickly he had changed, fallen, _whatever_ , and in the back of his mind wonders if Strauss had also been so easily affected. It feels like some weird voodoo or that something about Cook is not quite natural, like an incubus with a daylight penchant for centuries.

Kevin pulls back for a breather and wipes away their saliva from around his mouth on the back of his hand. In the dim lights of the room, Alastair’s beauty in his pleasure far supersedes anything Kevin ever expected or fantasised over the last couple days. Dark eyes roll almost completely back, and his swollen lips are set into a slack jaw. How the shadows play off the sharp angles exaggerates the masculinity of such bone structure.

The moment his mouth is free, Alastair’s grunts and groans turn to moans and hushed curses. It’s like music to a man who’s lived in silence for much too long.

“Fucking hell, Ali,” Kevin hisses under his breath. Were he 15 years younger, he knows he would be getting hard again, but now just suffers the irritation of thinking he’s wasted time on not fucking his captain here and now.

Alastair blinks and refocuses his gaze, licking his lazily smirking lips as he tilts his hips towards Kevin’s massaging hand. “C’mon, KP,” they share another kiss, quick but by no means chaste. “fucking _touch me_.”

“Hmm?” Kevin taunts in a hushed murmur, tilting his head so his lips brush the shell of Cook’s ear. He even finds the rich musk of the man alluring, so very different to the usual sweetness of perfume. “What if I like you like this? Frustrated, flushed, _submissive_ ,” he speaks the words just as the Captain had his own chosen ones, and they seemed to have the desired effect.

Alastair grins, eyes closed and rolls his head back into the pillows. “I’m fucking dreaming, aren’t I?”

“This is pretty tame for a dream of yours, isn’t it?”

Humming, Alastair only just cracks his eyes open and pulls Kevin back down for another kiss. “Definitely.”

Into the kiss, Alastair’s dissatisfaction starts to manifest. And loudly. He groans noises almost growls, digging his blunt nails into whatever bare flesh they can find. Hips canting upwards, forcing Kevin to surrender more sensation. It’s endearing in the strangest of ways. Kevin pulls from the kiss, chuckling as he sits back completely.

Dark eyes flash open completely, glaring a glare that he hasn’t seen since the last fight he got into with the others in the dressing room not long after his return to the team. Only it’s no way as authoritative in this context and only less scary when set into such pleasured features.

“You’re old enough to undress yourself,” is all Kevin says, totally insubordinate in his tone.

The glisten of eagerness fills Alastair’s gaze immediately and he wastes no time in hooking his thumbs around the waistband of his trousers and ridding himself of them completely. His vest quickly follows. He lays back, comfortable amongst his pillows and licks his lips in anticipation.

But all Kevin can do for the longest moment is _stare_. No fantasy can ever do the Captain justice. What is attractive half naked is utterly glorious completely bared. Every muscle is trimmed and toned, lean and tanned with a dusting of hair that is surprisingly soft to the touch. Alastair’s flesh shivers under his inquisitive hand. He even notices how the rhythm of Alastair’s breath hastens as he draws his forefingers down the centre line of his torso and abdomen. Even his cock is gorgeous. Kevin’s never thought or even _looked_ at another one before, but there’s definitely something about its curve and length that he likes.

“Fucking— _God_ ,” Alastair hisses between his teeth as Kevin wraps his right hand in a tight fist around that rock-hard shaft. He might not have experience in giving pleasure like this, but he’s jerked himself off enough times to have some sort of routine to fall back on.

He’s always been somewhat rough with himself, and there’s enough fluid leaking from the tip that allows for fast, jerky tugs. In fact, the more forceful he is, the more Alastair reacts. Keening and gasping, he bites back curses and groans Kevin’s name. And he loves it.

In a way, it’s not much different to pleasuring a woman at all. The motions are more or less the same, just the positioning and noises gained different, though the responses are an exact match. His hand now flows so slickly over Alastair’s cock that Kevin amuses himself with the thought that were the Captain a woman, he’d be _dripping_.

With a narrow grin, Kevin leans down to kiss those parted moist lips and drinks in all the little sounds Alastair makes. His hand wanders, from hips to the Captain’s throat and behind, pulling his head back so that Kevin can kiss down his neck. Alastair moans, tilting his head at such a perfect angle that Kevin can suckle the skin just under the corner of his jaw where it is unlikely to be seen. The mark isn’t stark, and will probably be gone by morning, but he will know it had once existed.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Alastair hisses, more desperate than ever as his hips start to disobey the pace Kevin has set. His thrusts are frenetic, fluid and totally fuel Kevin’s newfound fantasies. The South African just tightens his fist and swipes his thumb over the head when he can, teasing and coaxing Cook’s release.

He pulls up, mantling over Alastair like a rapacious falcon, sharing breaths as they both shorten from the pleasure of giving and taking. Kevin wants to tell him how beautiful he is like this, like he always is, but they never quite find a place on his tongue.

When Alastair’s climax finally comes, it takes Kevin’s breath away. He feels the ecstasy that sweeps over Alastair’s body. His muscles are just as tense, but antithetically motionless, like he’s frozen in the moment. He sees nothing but that perfect face contort in elation.

Kevin stoops to kiss that grinning mouth and Alastair all but curls around him, threading hands into his short hair and keeping contact until he has to break for air.

“That was—just— _God_ —thanks,”

Eloquence is usually one of the Englishman’s many skills and Kevin chuckles to cover the fact that he finds Cook undone impossibly arousing. Impossible, because he’s much too old for teenage virility and they still have another day of play tomorrow that they really need to be rested for.

“You’re welcome,” the South African murmurs and slides from between Alastair’s legs to wash his hands clean in the bathroom. By the time he returns, Alastair’s tucked up in bed, facing the wall, in the way he had been the first night they shared the room. It would be like nothing had happened if only there isn’t a grin of satisfaction lingering on both of them.

Kevin slips into his own bed and just before he falls asleep realises that he does so peacefully; mind finally as blank as the ceiling above them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone!

The dressing room the next day is less tense and everyone is grateful for it. Jokes pass back and forth, conversation is light and encouraging to those who still have to go out and bat. Kevin takes up his usual spot beside the Captain as they watch their teammates on the field.

No one bats an eyelid when Kevin gets up a minute after Alastair leaves the balcony. He eventually finds the Captain in the small toilets, washing his hands.

“Hey,” Alastair smiles at his reflection in the mirror opposite them both.

It’s an interesting angle, being able to see both Alastair’s face and behind at the same time. And it’s an angle Kevin finds he enjoys. Such a shame to waste such a gorgeous face for such firm buttocks and vice versa. His expression exposes such a sentiment and if Alastair notices, he certainly doesn’t mind.

He steps closer, pressing himself against Alastair’s back. The man’s spine seems to move just perfectly to fit his torso and were he not wearing the protective box over his groin, it would have felt _fantastic_. He palms Alastair’s hips and squeezes them when Cook tries to move.

Alastair hums and leans his head back against his shoulder. “Now who’s eager?”

“Not eager,” Kevin mumbles and contrastingly turns his head to nibble on that spot he had tried to mark last night. In the florescent overhead lights, he can just see a slight pink discolouration but it could just as easily be wishful thinking. “I can wait until tonight.”

A sigh slips from the Captain’s mouth that is almost relieved. Kevin would ask, if only he didn’t want to lose the moment. A question would waste time for the physicality of their contact – it was raunchy flirting in a way, he supposed – and someone was bound to walk in sooner rather than later.

Alastair turns and his hands instantly plant themselves of Kevin’s arms, feeling the muscles with his thumbs and relishing the firmness, the strength they harbour. He doesn’t even have to say a word for Kevin to lean down and initiate the first kiss of the day. It tastes slightly like the bacon they had at breakfast, and is no way as needy as their ones last night. But it’s no less charged.

Cupping one hand around Alastair’s jaw, Kevin presses him back against the countertop and surges closer. Though their cocks are only an inch or two apart, he can’t feel anything through the thick plastic and it’s just fine that way. They’re going to be called out to field soon. But ever the rebel, Kevin starts to slide his tongue in and out of Alastair’s mouth in a lewd and unsubtle insinuation.

Alastair doesn’t fall for it as much as he simply _loves_ it. He groans, gripping tighter to the inked arms he clutches. Kevin curls his fingers around the Captain’s lean hip, pulling them ever-flush together.

The Captain moves just a little, his hips gyrating and searching for feeling where there is none to be had. He sags back against the counter, glaring up through heavy eyes, “You’re such a prick.”

Kevin grins wolfishly. He loves how Alastair’s lips are shiny with spit, eyes glassy with undeniable arousal.

“You better deliver or I will fuck you so hard you’ll—”

The main door behind swings open and Kevin jumps back like he’s been stung. Their reflexes are fast, but there’s nothing that can cover them. No excuse to offer for the tint to Alastair’s cheeks or the fact that they _look_ like two teenagers caught on the family sofa.

It’s Jonathan in the mirror, wide-eyed and slack-jawed for a moment before he shrugs a little and wanders in without a comment. He goes straight into the first cubicle and shuts the door behind him.

Kevin glances back at Alastair who just shakes his head with a smile. “You’re still a prick,” is all he says before he slides past him to leave the room.

He waits only a few seconds, taking them to check he looks as calmly composed as always, before he follows his Captain’s lead.

When he gets back to the balcony, Stuart’s sat on the chair besides Alastair and the two converse about the pitch and who should bowl what. It’s not a conversation he’s desperately interested in, so he takes an available seat on the opposite corner.

A minute or so later, Jonathan sits close beside him and leans to whisper in his ear, “So when did that start?”

Kevin sags in his chair. Just what he wants and needs: judging. But he’s a fool to think that he could just have something casual with Alastair and no one would know. It wouldn’t even matter if only he hadn’t made such a big thing of disapproving.

“Last night—” he grumbles. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Trott pull a slightly surprised expression. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

It’s not the reaction he expected at all. In fact, once his answer is given, Trott drops the subject completely. He pays Kevin little – if any – attention for the rest of the innings, like he hadn’t stumbled in on them at all.

\--

Alastair retires early after dinner. He does not approach Kevin or say anything, but the South African knows they’re still on for the night from the look he receives we he glances up. It’s the most tempting _come hither_ smile he could have ever imagined.

Unfortunately, the eagle-eyed wicketkeeper across the table also sees it. Kevin only knows this when Matt slides into the vacant chair besides him, a grin of amusement plastered all over his face. Kevin wants to ignore him and reaches for his bottle of beer. It’s Budweiser so it’ll be no support in this dreaded conversation.

“Ya’know, when Trotty told me, I thought he was taking the piss.”

Looking up, Jonathan feigns complete innocence in ignorance. He does eventually catch Kevin’s glower and just smiles sheepishly.

“We can’t believe it’s taken you _so long_!”

Kevin reels on Prior with every intention of silencing him because the others are still eating, drinking and chatting and he doesn’t want everyone knowing. A part of him is terrified of it getting out. Amongst the team, it was just a matter of swallowing his pride, but he has no idea what he would do if Jessica found out. Yet, he is trapped now. A prisoner to Alastair’s beauty and addicted to the desire it ignited.

Matt doesn’t even flinch when he finds himself under scrutiny. He knows Kevin isn’t a violent man so much anymore and they’re all used to his tempers. He just laughs and waves his hands in a dismissive gesture, like Kevin’s tantrum is nothing more than a displeased cat’s. “Oh, _C’mon_ , we all thought you two were a thing _ages_ ago.”

Frowning, Kevin turns back to Jonathan who nods affirmation. “Yeah. You always made such a big thing out of not being alone with him. Like you couldn’t trust yourself with him. Or overcompensating in hiding the fact you’re hot for him.”

“There was a wager going on for a bit,” Prior adds and Kevin just takes another swig of his beer. It’s too much right now that he doesn’t want to think about. He should have just gone straight upstairs with Alastair – appearances be damned if everyone in the room _knew_ anyway. He could have been fucking the Captain right now, but instead knows he’ll go to his room with a head full of taunting thoughts that his team thinks he’s a fool on two counts.

One, he U-turned his opinions on Cook.

Two, wasted an unimaginable amount of time only _just_ U-turning.

“Straussy thought you were jealous; couldn’t handle not being ‘the best’, Graeme thought you didn’t enjoy playing the girl-”

“And Trotty thought you enjoyed it too much.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrow dangerously as he looks upon his bearded-room mate. Yet he is also blushing a bit. Kevin would ask, if only he wanted to know the answer. Because he really doesn’t. He doesn’t want to know about his friend’s sexlives, especially if they involve Alastair. He just wants to be upstairs and working a day’s frustration out his system.

“Really, we’re all just kind of shocked Ali’s taken his sweet time. I mean, he’s been after your arse for _years_.”

“…He’s spoken about it?” Kevin asks with genuine curiosity. It’s the one thing he is still confused about, because he never had any idea he was so desired. Not that it makes any difference now, but considering how awfully he had treated Alastair, the fact that those feelings hadn’t faded is somewhat… endearing, if not out-right gratifying.

“Him and Morgs got shit-faced once, while ago, and you came up in conversation,” Prior chuckles and reaches across the table for a new bottle of beer. “ _Oh_ , the things he came out with. Even the Irish sexpot was blushing—” he stops suddenly and just stares at Kevin for a moment in utmost confusion. “Why are you still even _here_?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin scoffs and finishes his drink in a hefty swallow. “So what was all that shit about _I’m not his type_?”

Matt shrugs. “Covering all the bases. No harm done though, right?”

“Right,” Kevin slides his chair back, bored of the conversation when he knows Alastair’s waiting. He stands like he’s preparing for some ceremony. Feels like it too, when Matt slaps him on the back, grinning. If he says something, it’s lost as Kevin wanders towards the exit. For all the chat, no one cares. It’s just like a normal night, whether someone goes back to their room with company or not.

On the journey upstairs, he does not allow himself to be nervous. He dismisses the tingling numbness in his fingers as eagerness: they want something to wrap around and hold. He’s not even worried about Swann and Trott’s (un)intentional taunts because he’s just too cocky to let the Captain crawl all over him all the time. Plus, Alastair said he found confidence and power attractive… that thought makes him wonder just _what_ Alastair had unconsciously confessed in that drunken conversation with Eoin. And _that_ puts a jump in his step along the seemingly endless corridor.

In the room, the lights are on and Alastair descends on him the moment he shuts the door. The Captain is just in his boxers and his skin is warm and moist. His hair is damp as Kevin threads his fingers into it. He tastes of toothpaste again as their tongue twist, mutual groans spilling forth.

“I thought you wouldn’t be joining me,” Cook beams and from the complete lack of insecurity in his voice, Kevin knows him to be lying. There is no way such a handsome man could doubt himself. No way could he think anything could resist him.

“Glad I’m here?”

Alastair hums and steps closer, their bodies flush and presses Kevin back against the cold mirror that hangs on the door. His elegant hands settle firmly back upon Kevin’s arms again. “I’m sure I will be.”

The South African loves how Alastair stokes his confidence, be it conscious or not. It makes him that little bit more comfortable with the situation and he commits himself to this. And, like how he plays a ball, it doesn’t do it by half-measure.

Their mouths collide again as Kevin trusts the firm hold the Captain has on him when he stoops down just enough to lift Alastair off his feet. He’s done it once or twice after a wicket on the field, but instead of the man’s waist, it’s his buttocks that Kevin’s hands clasp and those long legs curl perfectly around his abdomen. The noise Alastair makes, similarly, is not a shout of jubilation or a laugh, but an utterly appreciative moan.

With his muscle weight and height, Alastair isn’t exactly light but they somehow make it without incident into the main part of the room. The beds are pushed back together, and as he lays the Englishman down on one mattress he notices a bottle of lubricant and condoms on the bedside table.

He stills and remains standing between Alastair’s legs, though he slides his hands up and down his exposed thighs. “So,” Kevin starts and chews on his tongue for a second, wondering how to phrase the question without sounding like a complete novice. But he supposes that there’s no shame in it because they both know he’s never thought about sex with a man before. “How is this going to work?”

Alastair doesn’t laugh or make some derisive comment. He simply rises off the bed only to take fistfuls of Kevin’s shirt to pull him down. Unlike the night before, he settles his entire weight upon Alastair’s slighter frame, almost perfectly matched physically and so comfortable between his legs. “You’re going to fuck me,” he says as straight as he’s giving orders in the field.

Something about that calmness breathes audacity into Kevin and he smirks. “I’m going to fuck you,” he echoes resolutely, assertive, as he rubs his hands up to Alastair’s hips to grab and nigh-on yank him downwards to feel the growth of his erection.

Alastair grins wolfishly – a completely new and completely arousing expression – and all but grinds down against him like some wanton animal. “ _Hmm_ , good. This is going to fill me.”

Grunting deep in his throat, Kevin dips his head to snatch a kiss from those reddened lips. It’s another fight for control that Cook wins almost effortlessly – Kevin’s just too enthralled with the Englishman to resist for too long. He turns it into a long and passionate thing involving hands in hair, massaging shoulders and chests and when they break apart, Kevin’s on his back and his shirt is up around his neck.

“Foreplay,” Alastair mutters. It’s the tone he uses in the dressing room, when he’s being authoritative. For the first time, the South African notices how much he likes that it. Although, it can just be in the context of his spit-slicked mouth, near-nakedness and the fact that Alastair is straddling him and shuffling downwards inch by inch. The motion brushes their cocks together and Kevin can’t remember getting so hard so fast in a long time. “Is just as important as always.”

With a wry smirk, Kevin slips his right hand back into Alastair’s hair. “I thought _today_ was foreplay?”

Alastair chuckles, low and almost breathless, like he’s remembering all the glances, the subtle touches, the not-so-subtle touches, and the kiss they managed to sneak in at Lunch. The point must have hit something because the Captain does not reply. Well, he dips his head and trails his lips almost too lightly along all the ridges and valleys of muscle to Kevin’s chest. His stubble rasps and tickles, leaving goosebumps and groans in his wake. Kevin looks down, but his bunched up shirt is in the way.

Growling, he pushes Alastair from him who cranes upwards looking both perturbed and worried. But Kevin just pulls his shirt off and casts it away before grabbing Alastair almost by his ears to return him just the way he had been. “That was good. Don’t stop.”

Alastair doesn’t need telling twice. Immediately, he’s back like he never stopped. He only goes as low as Kevin’s navel, which makes him groan because his cock craves more attention that just brushes and an unintentional grind as the Captain moves. But Alastair shows no intention of moving quickly. He’s savouring this, Kevin can tell. The absolutely relish on his face, and the eyes that tell he’s committing every sight to memory and his hands explore like it’s land never to be seen again.

And Kevin’s fine with that. Perhaps tonight he will purge himself of all attraction to the man and return to the way they had been, only without that silly fear of waking with Alastair beside him. He feels nothing more than lust as he holds Alastair close to him, lifting his hips to search for friction; feels nothing more than what is felt for a random girl picked up from a club for a few hours.

Alastair curls his lips around Kevin’s nipples, switching and swapping between them with an impish fervour. The constant change of hot and cold makes Kevin shiver, his head back in the pillows. “ _Shit_ ,”

He feels and hears Alastair chuckle and reaffirms the hold he has on the Englishman’s head to pull him back up for another kiss. It’s the perfect opportunity to seize his control again. He rolls them both over and settles comfortably between Alastair’s legs. Hips locked, Kevin sets a gentle rock that relieves tension as much as an attempt to lure the Captain into giving up. Alastair moans his pleasure and comes undone easily. He strokes his hands down Kevin’s arms, to wrap around his wrists and guide his hands down to his chest.  Every inch of him is smooth and firm; so perfectly toned it’s like caressing a classical figure carved from marble.

Grunting, Kevin changes his assault to Alastair’s jaw and to his ear. “You’ll drive me crazy.”

“And now you know what it’s like for me when I watch you bat,” the Englishman laughs breathlessly and tilts his head to give Kevin all the room he could ever want. The entire time, Alastair’s hands roam and caress, needlessly keeping him interested.

He smirks and nips down the strong column of the Captain’s neck, making his way down to that spectacularly formed torso. Breaking from his kisses, he glances back up. “I bet you get so _hot_ when I hit a six.”

“Yes,” Alastair replies with a wide, ravenous grin. “Such _power,_ ” there’s a sparkle of mischief in his eyes so seldom seen and Kevin wants to capture it, …and keep it for his own. “I’d _love_ for you to ram your cock into me that hard.”

Kevin growls, and that’s all he’s reduced to. Thinking just how much he’d like to, how much he _wants_ to. And then he realises that maybe Alastair was prolonging whatever is going to happen in some wish that the South African would take control and take what he wants.

Utterly predatory, Kevin slides back up Alastair’s form, completely blocking the Captain in with his muscular arms either side of his head. He cranes down enough to press a trail of teasingly fleeting kisses from Alastair’s mouth and to the ear he hadn’t kissed before. “Do you want me to?”

The blatant echo of the question that started their whole affair off only makes Alastair groan like he’s laughing, loudly, inside. “ _Fuck yes_ ,” he breathes out without hesitation and all but writhes on the mattress as his imaginings are no doubt doing fabulously sordid, beautiful things to him.

Kevin pulls back, sliding to plant his feet on the ground again. Alastair remains still, waiting, though his eyes burn such impatience it’s tangible. As Kevin fiddles with his trouser fastenings with fingers so excited they feel numb, he takes in all that Alastair has to offer. His legs are spread wide, and a patch of his blue boxers is discoloured a little from his arousal.

Strange to think that only a few days ago, even the thought of this would’ve killed Kevin through the shame, but now it doesn’t even register. Alastair is a beautiful creature, and he has always had such a taste of beautiful creatures. And sex is sex, and if the blow job last night is anything to go by, this is going to be _great_.

He finally drops his trousers without ceremony, and the Captain flings one of the condoms over. He catches it and slips his boxers to the floor. Alastair’s dark eyes immediately drop, narrowing, as he swipes his tongue across his lips. The gesture could be as genuine as contrived, because it definitely spreads an eager heat through Kevin’s gut.

Curling his hand around his cock, Kevin gives himself a few long, lazy tugs and makes a show of enjoying it. Though he no doubt finds pleasure in being the stimulus, Alastair glowers. “Stop being a twat and _fuck me_.”

Kevin audaciously inclines his head, offering in his sweetest, softest voice. “How can I when you’re wearing your pants?”

The soiled garment is gone in a second, probably to be found tomorrow, if it’s ever found at all. It would be an interesting surprise for the housekeeper, Kevin muses as he tears open the condom’s wrapper to sheath himself quickly.

Alastair pulls him back down the moment Kevin sets his knees on the mattress. It feels as if the Captain has grown an extra set of limbs with how he surrounds him, touching everything, caressing and teasing, kissing and scratching blunt nails down flesh, earning groans and shuffles until they’re perfectly aligned.

Their cocks finally together without fabric or boxes, Kevin ducks his head down to catch Alastair’s mouth, wanting to taste those noises that spill forth with every shallow rock. They’re strangely reminiscent of bubbles in how they lilt and vanish into the charged air.

The action is kind of awkward: not at all like a woman’s slit to thrust between, with slick flesh surrounding and plenty of sensation to be found. It’s more teasing than anything else, and Kevin has far passed the point of that. “What do I do?” he murmurs into Alastair’s chin, unable to stop rocking downwards because that motion is all his hips seek.

“Let me turn over,” Alastair replies and whilst it’s patient, it’s also desperate; flighty with anticipation. Kevin can’t even begin to contemplate what he’s feeling. He’s never desired someone for so long, so ardently, to finally have them. Jessica was something like that, but Alastair’s want for him is so _very_ different.

They change positions neatly, although it’s a little haphazard on a single bed. Alastair’s right knee is on the very cusp between the two beds, and Kevin scowls when he thinks that their sex would be pretty much constrained to one position at a time, until they find a larger stage. He scoffs when he realises he’s thinking that this will be more than just a one-time thing.

“Don’t you have to—?”

“Just lube yourself and cut to the fucking chase,” Alastair snaps, but it ends with a breathy chuckle.

Eyebrows furrowing in a mix of confusion and concern, Kevin reaches up past the Englishman’s head to grab the half-empty bottle on the cabinet. He’s had anal sex a couple times and can only suppose it’s the same with men. And when he sits back on his haunches to slick himself generously, he notices the tell-tale shine around Alastair’s hole.

Alastair’s near panting already and he shivers as Kevin mounts him. He pushes Alastair’s legs further apart with his knees and grasps his waist. It’s not soft, and there’s no curve of hips to hold onto, but there’s strength and latent power in those muscles and someday, Kevin knows, he would like to see all the athletic things Alastair can put into sex.

For now though, he lazily slides his cock against the cleft of Cook’s bottom, reacclimatising to the sensation of penetration. The movement is smooth and familiar, and Kevin rubs his thumbs in circles against the small of Alastair’s back.

“ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ ,” the Captain chants under his breath, groaning and grinding backwards wantonly. “C’mon, Kev,” he drops his head to the pillows.

It’s a position he rather likes for the Captain. Universally submissive and yet so demanding at the same time. Kevin slides one hand down to guide his cock to where it needs to be. Suddenly, Alastair is chanting expletives again and it’s something for Kevin to focus on as he presses inside. Alastair’s tight – tighter than he was really expecting – and soft, and warm and slick and so _perfect_ that he has to still for fear of coming too soon.

He’s barely a few inches inside and Cook purrs as he tries to rock backwards, but Kevin stops him by grabbing and holding the lean angles of his hips. Any sound made is just lost in the rush of blood that makes his ears hum.

“My fucking _God_ , Ali,” he says when he finally manages to breathe again. Pushing all the way in feels like a marathon and he rests all his weight onto Alastair’s back. The Captain is strong enough to hold them both, but probably not for long. Not when Alastair is so _receptive_ to the slightest movement, the slightest gyration caused simply by breathing. With all the sex he has, Kevin assumed that Alastair would be hungry for pleasure, but blasé in how he gets there. He adores how the man shivers against him, so pleasantly surprised and eager to exploit that sensitivity.

Rubbing his fingertips into the hollow of Alastair’s hips, Kevin starts to slide back. Nothing could have prepared him for the sensation of being inside, both physical and mental. The crushing heat of all the right textures, setting all the nerves in his shaft into overdrive. He rests his forehead against Alastair’s neck, sucking in a breath as he thrusts back inside. A short, sharp motion he’s perhaps not ready for, but neither is Cook as he releases a beautifully strangled moan.

“You like that?” Kevin smirks, trying to hide the twist of exertion to his voice.  He repeats the process again, same pace, same power. Same result. “How’s it feel?”

“So good. So fucking good,” comes a mumble from the pillows.

“And how do _I_ feel?”

Alastair moans, melting into a chuckle as he lifts his head. He turns as if to face him, but the angle’s just wrong. There’s only a slight glimmer of an eye underneath a tousled fringe. He’s a far cry from the usually composed Captain. “I hope this isn’t, all you’ve got?”

Leaning down, Kevin curls his lips around an exposed ear, nibbling on the shell as he pulls back again. “Far from it,” he whispers and raises himself up to move.

The rhythm is not like his batting style, when he bursts in with both guns blazing and taking no prisoners. There’s no way he could manage that inside Alastair for more than a few minutes. So it’s more like something much more structured but far from delicate. He pushes in hard, deep and makes the withdrawal a long slide that teases the muscles around him to clench so he’s still gloriously tight to thrust into.

Alastair is surprisingly vocal when he’s usually a man of such measured words. He’s never sounded quite so good, spilling out curses and moans; never quite begging but demanding more. And Kevin happily obliges. He moves as fast and as forceful as he can until he knows he’s close to coming.

Years of marriage and his own arrogance screams that he can’t finish first. He hangs his head and slides his hands across Alastair’s back. The arch in it is simply fantastic; a little damp with their sweat and the skin shivers under his fingertips. The Englishman hums and rocks backwards in tiny motions that are no threat to Kevin’s climax. He’s just stealing sensation like a ravenous whore.

And it tells Kevin that he’s obviously doing the right thing. With a twist to his lips, he continues to stroke Alastair’s body, trailing two fingers down the man’s spine and cutting across his waist to his front. A toned stomach is just as firm and flighty with pleasure.

“Should I touch you here?” he murmurs gently and ghosts his fingers around the base of his cock.

Alastair hums, making to thrust into his touch, but there’s still one hand positioned at his hip that keeps him more or less still. “Yeah,” he manages to reply and it sounds like he’s smiling.

It makes Kevin chuckle a little and he makes a tight fist around Alastair’s length and gives him a few slow tugs, before starting to thrust into him again.

“God— _fuck­­_ —” Cook moans, all but falling down onto his elbows, and presses back that much harder against Kevin. “Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

The South African scoffs like he even thought he _could_ stop. But he knows he can’t. He’s lost on the chase for orgasm, almost feeling it beginning in his extremities as they start to numb. But he doesn’t miss how Alastair’s muscles throb around him, and how his cock twitches against his palm.

“So close, so close,” he needlessly chants and Kevin is sure to redouble his efforts, making thrusts sharp and frequent until the bed is banging up against the wall. And Alastair is screaming his name for the world to hear. Nothing matters but the beauty of it, stoking Kevin’s ego, and if in the morning anyone has anything to say about it, it’s only because he’s so damn good at fucking their captain.

Alastair’s climax is sudden, loud and consuming. Kevin lets go of his cock, gripping immediately back onto his hips as leverage to force himself into the vice-like grip of that body. His vision goes hazy seconds before his eyelids slide shut and orgasm sweeps through every nerve. He feels numb, yet so sensitised, breathing in gasps each time his hips jerk forwards to spend himself inside Alastair.

The Captain’s fallen to an interesting angle, gripping the pillow in two white-knuckled hands and making all manner of strained noises into the linen. Kevin pulls out when he can’t take any more sensation, careful to take the condom with him.

“Shit,” he laughs as he rolls onto his back, and onto his one of the two beds. His body doesn’t quite feel his own yet, and the ceiling is still moving in fascinating shapes and patterns. Alastair’s breathing hisses in his ear and when he turns his head, there’s an absolutely dazed expression on his face.

“You’re fucking amazing, you know that right?”

“Yeah,” Kevin grins.

Chuckling, Alastair sluggishly pushes himself up to kneel on the mattress and stretches his back like a cat. When Kevin is able to look at something other than the Captain, he sees the mess they’ve made of the bed. The sheets are distorted from Alastair’s convulsions and his come is soaking into the linen, whilst the rest is smeared over his waist and hip. But were anything different, Kevin wouldn’t feel as half as replete. Something like this, a sordid affair that shouldn’t have ever really happened, shouldn’t be anything but messy.

But he doesn’t really want to be thinking such things for fear of spoiling his good mood. Lazily getting to his feet, Kevin casts the soiled condom into the bin and continues on into the bathroom to wash his hands. Alastair joins him, shaky on his legs and there’s pink bruises blossoming around his pelvis. Kevin smirks to himself and slides out of the way as the Captain wipes his body clean with a wet flannel. He doesn’t leave without a light smack to his bottom and a familial remark.

“That was fun.”


	4. Chapter 4

The next night, they fuck again. Kevin’s confidence has grown in leaps and bounds, meaning no hesitance, no words getting in the way of all the noises they could make in pleasure. Alastair’s bent over the end of the beds, fisting the clean sheets. Kevin is infinitely glad to have the solid ground under his feet because it means he can thrust that bit harder and it goes well noticed to the Captain. And probably everyone else in the hotel.

No one had said anything that morning, though Prior had looked smugly amused and Graeme had clapped him on the back with an ominous laugh just after breakfast. But that was it. It is like he had been initiated into a club, and even he had to admit he felt more comfortable now in the squad, no longer caring who had and who hadn’t fallen for Alastair’s charms and talents.

At the end of the Test series, they’ve beaten New Zealand 3-1 and Kevin thinks he’s gotten sex with Alastair down to a fine art. Cook comes now without a hand on his cock, and he’s just as vocal – if not _more_.

On the final night, they do nothing special. It starts with Alastair blowing him until he’s just about to come. Kevin lies back on the mattress as he is pushed to, and Alastair sinks down onto his cock and rides him slow and thoroughly as he bites his lip. It’s only afterwards, when he settles into that bed alone for the rest of the night, that Kevin realises that that _had_ been something special. The first time they had sex face-to-face. The first time he saw Alastair’s face in the storm of an internal orgasm, and how utterly, completely, mind-blowingly beautiful he is.

At breakfast, Alastair simply wishes him a safe journey back to London. Like he always does at the end of a series. He says nothing of when they will meet up again for the India Tour in two months. He says nothing of their sex. Just a simple farewell before he slings all his kit bags into his car and drives back to his wife in Bedfordshire.

Kevin’s journey is long and he inevitably finds his mind wandering back to the night before. He remembers each detail, the touch of Alastair’s skin and the slight sweetness of alcohol in his breath. As he heads down long, monotonous motorways, that most pleasured of faces haunts his mind.

But when he gets home, and is wrapped in an overly zealous and loud hug with his son, and a tender kiss from his wife, he wonders what he had even been thinking about on his way home.

In two months ‘Alastair Cook’ does not cross Kevin’s mind. Unless he’s in the news, or someone else mentions him. Even then, it’s in his capacity as Captain. Kevin thinks of him as nothing more, nothing less. When he gets a text from the man, he openly reads it in front of his family, not even thinking it could have been anything other than professional. And that’s what it is: professional. The Captain just checking that he’s all packed and ready for the meeting the next day.

The following morning, Dylan’s in tears because he’s long realised that a car full of bags means he won’t see his father for a few months. Jessica hangs in the doorway, solemn-faced, but used to their way of life. Sometimes, Kevin can’t imagine having a _normal_ married life, 9-5 job and spending nearly every waking hour out of that with his wife. They’d be at each other’s throats in no time. Instead, the time they spend together is precious and their last kiss before he sets off is one of promise. It keeps him warm his entire journey to India.

It keeps him warm a few days longer too, which he needs. The hotel is far from the most glamorous they’ve ever been to but it’s survivable. They all have their own rooms, though as usual, very few are locked and everyone’s invited to wander wherever they please.

Everything is exactly as he’s gotten used to over his years on the England team. Meals fluctuate between lively and mundane, usually depending on how well training went. Once or twice he notices Alastair stand and leave the room either with company or someone follows a minute later. Kevin thinks nothing of it until the first game they play.

He had forgotten how beautiful it is to watch Alastair bat. The grace and elegance, technical skill and patience… that patience he had consistently shown through foreplay, and suddenly Kevin realises that he knows what he is feeling too well.

It is want, yearning, desire, lust… and the outlet for it all is teasingly easy.

Teasing, because they still have the whole day’s play to endure. The thought never crosses his mind that the Captain will reject his advances – and even if it does, Kevin is resolved to do everything in his power to make Alastair want him just as intensely.

Fortunately, Jonathan gets bowled and Kevin doesn’t think he’s made it to the crease so quickly. The Indian crowd go wild for him, no doubt enthusiastic for whatever show he can put on, or maybe a fondness for him for his performances in IPL, or maybe excited to see their best bowlers up against such a legend. Either way, Alastair leans on his bat beside the opposite wicket as he takes up his stance. There’s a wry smile on that face, and it feels like the start of a whole new game.

In truth, Kevin can’t remember enjoying an innings quite so much. His concentration on the ball as it’s bowled is unfaltering, and he hits every one he can manage to as hard as he can. He’s not entirely reckless enough to endanger his wicket, but nothing quite matches looking up to see Alastair’s face. The slight bite of a lip or whisper of ‘ _another six?_ ’ are just as much rewards as the runs stacking up beside his name.

And Alastair returns in his own way. Confident on the pitch he achieved a century on debut on whilst not being aggressive - so much like his behaviour in bed. And each perfect stroke and nimble show of footwork just reminds Kevin even more of it. The crowd is deafening, but in those moments, all he can hear is the Captain’s breathless moans, the curses and panting of his name.

It comes to an abrupt end when he’s caught out over an ambitious sweep that even he had to agree was a good catch. It’s a shot he shouldn’t have tried to play, but as he walks down the wicket, Alastair looks suitably pleased with his 73.

That evening, Alastair makes a point of walking past Kevin’s table on his way to the exit. He shoots that _come hither_ look again and no one cares if they even see it. They’d gotten used to it during the New Zealand series, and how even sometimes, Kevin had gone and leaned over Alastair’s shoulder as he ate like he had something important to say and not ‘I c _an’t wait to be inside you_ ’.

Not wanting to seem overly zealous lest someone notice and the next thing he knows there’s a wager back on over their exploits, Kevin finishes his beer before he gets up. The longer he makes Alastair wait, the hotter he’ll get, and the more willing he’ll be to torture the South African for his tardiness – and the better the orgasm.

He’s waiting for the lift, tapping his toes on the thin carpet and willing the damn thing to get back down quicker, when his phone starts to ring. He answers without checking the caller.

“Hey, it’s not too late, is it?” It’s Jessica and her voice is full of optimism.

“No. Now’s great,” Kevin smiles and turns to take the stairs lest he lose reception in the lift. She must have the call on speakerphone because he can hear his son’s squeal of delight and the three of them talk all the way up to his room. And half the way into the night until Jessica points out that maybe he really should sleep because he’s playing again in the morning. Hanging up is an unwelcome chore, but when he manages it, he’s greeted with his background: Jess and Dylan on the recent birthday he missed. He props his phone up on the bedside table and falls asleep secretly wishing he was back in London.

\--

The next day goes smoothly, Stuart and Jimmy bowl well whilst the Indian batsmen remain a challenge. Alastair maintains order from Slip and everything is as it always is. Until Tea. Kevin’s in the toilets when he hears the door open. No other cubicle opens and shuts and no taps are run, which he finds somewhat strange. When he opens the door, Alastair’s leaning against the countertop, his jaw set firm and eyebrows furrowed with tangible displeasure.

“You didn’t come last night.”

The accusatory tone makes Kevin scoff. He stands beside Alastair to wash his hands, otherwise ignoring him. And that’s a mistake.

“So yesterday was just a laugh? Making fun of me? Because you know I—”

“Find it sexy?” Kevin smirks and looks at the Englishman out of the corner of his eye. “Is it just the fact that I didn’t fuck you that’s gotten you so pissed? Or is it the fact that I got you so hot, so easily, for nothing?”

There’s a muscle in Alastair’s cheek that throbs as he clenches his jaw, seething from that mocking tone Kevin uses. But he’s not a violent man in any way, and doesn’t really raise his voice. He’s the type of man that walks away, and that’s exactly what he starts to do.

But Kevin grabs his wrist – wet hands and all – and yanks him backwards. It’s strong enough that Alastair spins in the movement and Kevin’s other hand is in his hair in an instant and they’re kissing. A brutally hard pressure that lightens only once the Captain registers what they’re doing and almost immediately opens his mouth.

“I fucking, hate you, sometimes,” Alastair hisses, sounding more bitter than he ever has before, and biting Kevin’s tongue every opportunity he gets. “I’m not here, to be fucked with.”

“Really?” Kevin chuckles and slides his hands down Alastair’s sides to his hips. Again, their boxes assure that no touch can become overly sexual, though the kisses aren’t helping much. “Jess rang me, okay? Maybe your wife is fine with you shagging guys, but mine isn’t.”

The Captain grunts and leans in for a lazier, chaster kiss before he pulls away completely. “You owe me one.”

Bemused, Kevin watches him leave as quickly as he came. The nonchalance and expectancy of those four words showing his utter disregard – or at least misunderstanding – of marriage. He finds himself wondering just what the Cooks are like at home. Whether Alice has any idea of what Alastair is like on Tour. Whether she knows just how many partners Alastair has taken and the things he does. How can she not mind, or care?

They’re questions he pulls Alastair aside to answer the moment they get back to the hotel. The Captain seems eager to talk. They settle into a secluded corner of the bar – quiet enough to be private, but public enough that he is comfortable that the conversation will just remain a conversation.

Alastair just shrugs when he’s asked outright. The same way he did when asked about his relationship with Strauss. He’s got nothing to hide, especially when asked so directly.

“I prefer sex with guys. Always have. Even before I knew her. She knows it,” their dark eyes only lose contact when either one takes from their drink, though as he talks, Kevin notices Alastair starting to look uncomfortable –like he’s never really spoken of the subject before. “I love her – like a wife, just not _sexually_.”

“So,” Kevin whets his tongue and ponders exactly what he’s trying to say. In essence, Alastair’s problem isn’t hard to understand, just hard to comprehend. “She’s fine with you sleeping around because that’s all it is. Just satisfying your needs.”

“That’s all it’ll ever be,” he says with a conviction that is much deeper than Kevin deems required. He doesn’t ask though, because the distance in Alastair’s eyes looks like a raw nerve.

Taking another swig, Kevin nods slowly. If it is easy to fuck someone and not love them, then the opposite must be possible. The more he thinks about it, the more the thought amuses him – almost to the point he starts laughing. Like Alastair’s found the secret to a good marriage. Missing all the palaver over sex and the denial of it, and the way that it starts to get boring after a time because no matter how much you love someone, it gets samey after the first few years.

“As long as it happens off the farm and she knows nothing about it – that’s our agreement.”

He nods again, cracking a smile as he leans closer to the Englishman. “So, what can I do tonight to make up for—” he trails off as Alastair starts to shake his head. There’s a seriousness upon that perfect face that is grave and final.

“You said your wife’s not cool with it,” and he holds his finger up to silence the protest that forms on Kevin’s face. “I’m not risking people getting hurt. It’s meant to be fun.”

Kevin sits, flabbergasted and trying to keep his mouth shut as Alastair picks up his drink and stands.

“I’m just sorry I got you into this mess.”

Again, Kevin grabs his wrist, but doesn’t pull. He doesn’t want to make a scene because they really didn’t pick a spot private enough for it. “You were fine with it earlier! You said—”

“My judgement was clouded,” the Captain offers as he shrugs. “But think about it, Kev. You’ve got a family – a _son_ who means a lot to you. Is losing him something you _really_ want to risk?”

Eyes falling down to the floor, Kevin relinquishes his hold on Alastair’s wrist. The notion hits home. Hits so close to home he can’t bear to think it.

“It _was_ fun, KP, believe me,” Alastair reaches down just to place a hand on Kevin’s shoulder in the gesture he usually shows as comfort. But it does not feel like such to Kevin, because despite himself – despite his _family_ – he still aches for those slender, strong, skilled hands to wander on his bare, moist flesh.

When he manages to raise his eyes again, Alastair is long gone. Kevin leaves his drink and drifts off up to his room, where he sits in the dark and orders a few beers up. He can’t drink them though, knowing that he’s playing in the morning – but the thought that they were there on his bedside table is comforting.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, so it’s a surprise when Ian shakes him awake. It’s so jolting that for a few moments, he believes that it was all some extended dream and that they hadn’t even started the New Zealand series yet. But then the distinctive smell of India sets into his nostrils. He sags back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling as he had for most of the night.

“Seriously, KP, get up. Breakfast’s served,” stresses Ian as he flings random garments onto the bed. 


	5. Chapter 5

The day passes Kevin by in a haze. His wicket falls cheaply and he returns to the dressing room to sit in silence, overlooking the pitch but only seeing the mess in his mind.

He’s happily married – the last two months only prove that. He had spent two months with his wife and no one else had crossed his mind. Yet now he cannot get Alastair from his thoughts. He’s acutely aware of the Captain’s presence only a few feet away. Waiting for some brush of skin, or touch, or whisper of something improper like there had been before.

He can’t understand why he craves sex so. And why it’s only Alastair. He’s risking everything for an infatuation that makes no sense. An infatuation so wrong but so satisfying it has to be right and before he knows it, Kevin is thinking up all manner of ways to keep the affair away from his marriage.

Why Alastair is so adamant to keep him at bay confounds the South African. If he sleeps with as half as many men as Kevin assumes he does, he sleeps with a lot of married ones. Yet never once have they been cast aside.

Perhaps it’s just a test or something… some strange way Alastair goes about achieving personal gratification. A sense that he’s worth the chance of a family falling apart. His sex is worth the effort. But Kevin can’t think the man so malicious.

No, he’s genuinely concerned for Kevin’s wellbeing and it’s as endearing as it’s insulting.

Alastair does not think him as capable of being clandestine as someone like Strauss? There’s only one way he knows to change that, and that’s to prove he can be.

The conclusion is reached eventually and his mind is instantly clear. That sort of comforting clear that had come when he admitted his desire to the Captain. He knows what he wants and he’s damned sure he’s going to get it.

Alastair’s room is only around the corner and Kevin wastes no time in making his way there. It’s not too late in the night, and as he passes by other doors, he can hear laughing, swearing or the recorded gunfire of video games.

He pauses, with his hand poised to knock, but just wanting to check that he wouldn’t be waking Alastair up – or interrupting a meeting with the coaches. A dim light radiates from under the door and he hears movement, but no voices.

Until ‘ _Ugh, Ali_ ’ is groaned in the tell-tale accent of an Irishman.

Kevin’s fist balls even tighter, suspended just a hair’s width away from the door. Perhaps it’s just his imagination, but then it comes again in a chuckle, “You suck like a dyson,” and he’s certain it’s Eoin in there.

His hand drops like a dead weight, and it feels like his stomach has turned into a tarpit, bubbling and spewing acrid gasses that burn up to form a lump in his throat. The sickness turns to a quiet fury the longer he stays there – able to hear those gorgeous little groans Alastair makes to send vibrations along a cock in just the right ways.

Kevin wants to be there. He wants to be receiving that; giving back pleasure in turn and making Alastair scream his name like it’s some show of possession. He can’t imagine how Alastair can attempt to replace him, and snidely thinks to himself that maybe he can’t. Maybe Alastair is searching so desperately for that fantastic climax that only Kevin had given him before.

His listens to Eoin come with a stifled moan of nothing in particular and slides into a nearby alcove as they move about in the room. Something’s muttered and Alastair laughs – that same sort laugh he laughed when Kevin tended to smack his backside after withdrawing. He grits his teeth and bides his time.

It’s not a long wait. The door opens and Eoin swaggers out – unashamed – and goes straight into Finn’s room. As tempting as it is to follow the redhead and lambast him, there’s no point. Why single him out simply because he’s the only one Kevin knows Alastair’s been with since they were last together? It would be unfair, and a waste of time that he could be spending with the Captain himself.

Two sharp knocks and a few moments later, Alastair opens the door and frowns when he sees Kevin there. Maybe he also frowns because the South African cannot wipe the storminess from his face. It gets even worse when he notes the redness around Alastair’s lips and his hair is tousled from someone else’s fingers. He’s still so beautiful. So beautiful that all Kevin wants to do is reclaim him; mark his territory upon that toned figure and make him cry out all those lilting sounds that will erase the last five minutes from his memory.

“Is something wrong?” Alastair asks after an era of silence and Kevin’s stares.

“I don’t care.”

The Englishman’s lips twist downwards and he steps back into his room. For a second, Kevin thinks he’s just going to shut the door and he places his palm against it in an effort to stop him, but Alastair pulls it open further in a wordless invite.

As Alastair’s room always is, it’s clean and ordered – a habit tracing back to his days boarding – and the bed is more or less made, apart from the indentation at the foot of it where Eoin had no doubt been perched. Alastair stands in one corner and Kevin in the other.

“So,” the Captain starts and crosses his arms, looking utterly infallible and like he hadn’t just had his lips wrapped around his teammate. “You don’t care about your family.”

Kevin hisses and shakes his head. “No, I don’t care what _you_ think. I want to keep on fucking around,” he watches as Alastair stalks closer, only to pass him on his way back to the door. “We can stop anytime though, right? Because it’s just fucking around,” and Alastair stops midstep and jerks his head around to look at him with narrow eyes. “As soon as it’s a risky – we stop.”

“It’s not that easy,” Alastair shakes his head and releases a little sigh. Kevin frowns, stepping closer. “What if she finds out _after_ we finish it, hmm?”

He raises some fine, painful points but Kevin is conceitedly assured that Jessica never will find out. The team has too much dirt on each other for them to start selling stories and besides, sex is sex and Jessica is mad if she thinks Kevin hasn’t veered off course at least once in their years together.

“What makes me any different to Strauss? To Freddie?”

Alastair’s eyes narrow even more than before, and in the lights, they shine like little curved blades. His lips pull tight and he storms to the door, muttering under his breath. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

“What? Why? Morgs put you off?” Kevin smirks and raises one eyebrow. He starts to walk closer in measured steps.

The Captain turns suddenly, and finding the South African closer than before, backs up a foot. But there’s no where for him to go. And Kevin keeps on coming. “Are you _jealous_?” he asks with a shot of incredulousness in a pint full of malice.

“No,” Kevin lies and steps that little closer. Alastair’s flat-backed against the door and there’s only a wisp of air between them. He can feel the Englishman thrumming. Excitement, probably, more than any fear. Kevin’s never been quite so assertive and were the lights in the room better, there will be a familiar flush of colour to Alastair’s cheeks. “After I fuck you – just how I want – you’ll never be able to look at anyone else again.”

“That’s awfully arrogant of you,” Alastair baits, tilting his head back just enough to show that he’s not backing down. But his eyes betray him: he’s fighting for control – either of this game or of himself. His jaw muscles clench and throb as Kevin finally presses his body against him and crushes him under his gaze.

He leans closer, lips to his ear, “And tell me you don’t like it.”

“I do not like it.”

“No,” Kevin scoffs, sneering into Alastair’s cheek as he snakes one hand between their bodies to squeeze the man’s crotch. Just as he suspected, he feels heat and a half-hard, growing cock. “You _love_ it.”

He doesn’t even get a second to think up another taunt, _anything_ , as Alastair is already upon him with the vehemence of a striking viper, grabbing his head and stealing a kiss Kevin allows but does not surrender. If every other time they were together was of mutual control, this certainly is not going to be.

As he devours the Captain’s mouth with equal enthusiasm, he threads his hand into Alastair’s hair and yanks his head backwards. It effectively breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t mind. Alastair produces an incredible gasping groan of arousal and Kevin growls as he rakes his teeth down the exposed column of his neck.

There are no words he can think to say. Even less that he wants to say. He doesn’t want to start an argument because he has Alastair exactly how he wants him, and Alastair is exactly where he wants to be.

His long fingers clasp and try to direct but Kevin consciously denies him whatever he searches for. Alastair must resign himself to these most primal of his desires because he turns to just aimlessly caressing Kevin’s body, urging him into giving more.

The taste of him is something the South African has sorely missed. He’s absolutely ravenous in his attack, making sure not one inch of bare skin goes unattended. Just because Alastair’s turned submissive doesn’t mean he’s backing down. He’s got a point to prove. A promise to keep.

“ _Kev_ ,” Alastair manages to hiss. His hips press forward towards Kevin’s hand, grinding himself against his palm. It’s the one thing Kevin allows because he wants Alastair hard, and quickly.

He pulls his hand away the moment he thinks the Englishman is ready and forces him to spin around. Now craning over Alastair’s shoulder, he fastens his lips to the junction of his neck and grips his hips to rub his growing erection against the Captain’s bottom.

Were there a mirror on the door like there was in most other hotels he had stayed in, Kevin would have been fixated on whatever expression Alastair must be making. The sounds he comes out with are no less appealing, but only seeing his face in such pleasure once was in no way enough. But there will be other times for that. Many more times.

Kevin smirks when Alastair’s breath hitches as he yanks down his trousers and boxers. Was he really not expecting sex, or rather so desperately aroused it’s like the first time again? He hopes the latter, because unlike that time, he has no intentions of tentativeness and _relishes_ the thought of Alastair being immensely vocal – here, where there is so little to muffle the noise.

Standing back, he pushes his own jeans down just enough to get his cock out. Alastair eagerly bends as much as he can in the little room he’s given between Kevin and the door; his legs impatiently spread.

The sight alone would’ve aroused Kevin beyond belief and he bites his lip as he pumps his length completely rigid. For one moment, a tiny part of his mind comments on the absence of lubricant, but his disregards it by spitting into his palm once to slick his shaft and twice to smear over Alastair’s waiting hole.

He has no idea how this will feel, if it will hurt Alastair, and as he presses himself flush to the other’s back, he doesn’t care. The Englishman is muttering under his breath: indiscernible words but in no way protests or denials of consent. His fingers curl against the painted wood, bracing and pressing back against Kevin’s larger frame.

Gripping Alastair’s hip in one hand and the other supporting himself, Kevin starts to push into the ring of muscle that is the only resistance he feels will ever come from the Captain. He’s never been so tight, so hot, so _vocal_ as he pants and groans; forehead pressing against the door.

Kevin leans closer, pressing his lips to the sharp angle of his jaw. From here he can taste his breath, and the urgent murmurs of “ _c’mon, c’mon_ ,” that increase when he slows the slide of his entry. It’s almost too much for him to bear, but somewhere inside, he finds the strength to thrust the rest of his length inside with a grunt hissing against thin flesh.

“ _Fuck_ ,” the Captain whines quietly, strained and yet breathy. He turns his head, as discomposed as he had ever looked with his hair ruffled, cheeks and lips red; looking both pained and unbelievably pleasured. He rocks his hips back in a circular motion and Kevin knows exactly what he’s looking for.

Taking a firm hold of both Alastair’s hips, he manipulates the man to the correct angle. He makes the withdrawal of his cock a long, slow thing as much to adjust to the sensations around his shaft, as to tease more frustrated little noises out.

The first thrust is just how he wants it, firm and smooth, and strikes the spot deep inside Alastair that makes him keen. Back arched, he grinds backwards even as Kevin’s completely buried in his body, demanding more.

And it’s one more request that the South African does not deny him. Continually forcing himself in, the pace quickly becomes vile and animalistic but endlessly satisfying. They are wild, rutting vigorously with only the climax on their minds. For the first time in a long, long while, Kevin finds himself thinking of his own pleasure, and couldn’t care less for that of Alastair's.

He has a point, and he's making it. It's his name on the Captain's lips. His name that echoes in his ears between moans and gasps. He can choose what noise Alastair makes, almost exclusively controlled by his hips. The depth of a thrust; whether or not he chooses to assault the man’s prostate.

"Does it hurt?" He smirks, keeping his voice little above a purr just below Alastair's ear.

"Fuck yes," comes the reply, paired with that wolf-like grin the man has. “Don’t think of fucking stopping.”

Sneering, Kevin never once lets any sense of fatigue affect him. The more he focuses on the sounds of their sex, the more he finds himself enjoying the moment. The brutal slap of flesh-on-flesh, and how Alastair’s tongue seems to lose its grasp on language, falling into grunts of varying octaves and heavy breaths that slip into longer moans. Kevin knows he’s not any different, exerting himself to the point his lungs feel like they’re on fire... but the heat starts to sink much lower, into his gut to coil and bubble.

Alastair comes quite suddenly in a string of expletives and _could be_ cries of Kevin’s name; his head bashing into the door as his fingernails scrape the white paint, looking for something to hold onto as his body convulses from the sensations as they grow too much. And Kevin starts to pull out, feeling his own orgasm biting at his ankles in the constricting embrace of the muscles that surround his cock.

“Come in me,” he hears Cook murmur. A slur amongst pants that almost has Kevin pause to enquire. He’s too far gone into ecstasy to do much more than grunt, rocking back and forth shallowly in the time it takes Alastair to repeat with more concrete conviction, “Come in me.”

It’s a demand.

A demand that Kevin doesn’t question. He can’t find it stupid because the thought alone was arousing to the point it could’ve trigged his climax. He remembers they’ve gone without a condom for the first time: the sort of reckless, intimate thing he liked to do with women. He groans, “ _God,_ Ali,” as he presses his forehead to the nape of the mewling Captain’s neck, focusing entirely on putting all of his strength into the last few thrusts he knows he’ll last for. 

He relishes the feel of Alastair from the inside in a way he hadn’t had the chance to before. Until his nerves set alight and the pressure in his gut bursts, relieved only by the uncontrollable jerking of his hips as he fills his captain with his seed. It feels like every sense has been stolen, jumbled and played with and they return slowly, and work themselves out even slower. It’s such a beautiful, amazing feeling he’s always loved but somehow it has never been more pronounced and enchanting before.

When he comes back to himself, Alastair is still gasping for breath, eyes closed, though there’s a grin on that face of utmost satisfaction. Kevin gingerly palms at the man’s hips as he withdraws before planting the customary smack to one firm buttock.

“ _Fucking shit_ ,” the Captain hisses – in discomfort – but he never stops beaming. He turns slowly and slumps against the door, palms flat to the wood as if it’s the only thing holding him up. “You prick.”

As he stands back to catch his breath, the South African appreciates all that he’s made Alastair into. The flush to his body is an alluring shade of pink that seems to make the redness to his hips all the more coloured, let alone the mess between his legs... but he’s much too old for the sight to have any effect on him now. The image would remain, and no doubt be something to fuel a quick release when he finds himself with no company but his right hand in the future.

With a smirk, he turns into Alastair’s little bathroom and sets to wash himself clean of the tryst. Moments later, Cook swings into the doorway and leans heavily against the frame.

“You’re right, you know,”

Kevin glances at him curiously. He’s still so breathless, so dazed, that Kevin knows he couldn’t have proved his point of being everything Alastair desired in any better way. And the Englishman knows it. And will continue being reminded of it for the next few days.

“I love it,” he admits, and to his credit, he doesn’t hide behind any sarcasm or mockery, or even exaggeration. It’s not a game, or something to tease Kevin with to stroke his ego into more rounds like that one. It’s as honest as Alastair always is.

“So we can keep fucking?”

Alastair cracks one smile that only lifts one side of his face, and then exhaustion sets in and he pushes himself away from the doorframe and vanishes around the corner. “G’night, Kev.”


	6. Chapter 6

In hindsight – that glorious thing that Kevin tends to ignore – the previous night was a bit of a mistake. They’ve still got to play today and Alastair is obviously in a measure of discomfort. At breakfast, Kevin plants himself across the table from the Captain with no more intention than to not let Alastair think for a moment he has had second thoughts about his decision. But the more he sees Alastair wince every time he moves, perched awkwardly on his chair, the more he almost starts to regret what he did. Well, the way he did it. The moment he starts to regret having sex with Cook is the moment he knows he should stop it – and he most certainly doesn’t want to do that. 

Then a sort of strange smugness that spreads like an infection and poisons any compassion he could feel. Every sheepish glance he gets from Alastair; every time those dark eyes flick towards him when a movement hurts just strokes Kevin’s ego. And it doesn’t help that with those eyes comes a smile with a sharpness that reminds Kevin of the satisfied grin that usually took to Cook after coming, or even a cheeky moment in the dressing room. 

Twenty minutes later, when they’re getting ready to head out, he finds Alastair’s door open and slides in silently. The man has his back to him and his head down like he’s reading something. Smirking, Kevin sneaks closer, hands outstretched to grasp Alastair by his tender bottom. He gets about 6 inches away when Alastair’s head snaps up and his voice rings out clear and commanding, “Touch me and you’ll be next to Bairstow whenever we travel until you retire.”

Kevin doesn’t drop his hands, but instead curls them around the Englishman’s hips. Over his shoulder, he sees Alastair’s reading something on his phone and gleans it a message from his wife, so he doesn’t read it. And to prove he’s not doing so, turns his face into the crook of Alastair’s neck and lightly nibbles. It’s far too tempting to mark it, but they’ll be on camera for the rest of the day. 

After a minute or two, the phone is put in a bag and Alastair rolls his shoulders into Kevin’s caress. 

“You didn’t give me an answer last night,” the South African murmurs just below his ear.

“We’re not fucking for a good few days, Kev,” Alastair scoffs and pushes himself free from the embrace. When he turns, he’s smiling and he doesn’t refuse Kevin when he steps back towards him. 

Immediately, he takes up a similar stance, resting his forearms on the sharp angles of his hips. He can’t apologise because he’s still not sorry and insincerity is one thing Kevin can never be accused of. “….do you regret it?”

Alastair chuckles, breathless, and closes his eyes for a moment like he’s assessing the previous night to come to an informed conclusion, but Kevin wants to think he’s reminiscing. “I regret that I wasn’t prepped for it?” his long fingers wander up from Kevin’s waist to his torso and fiddles with the buttons of his shirt. “But _fuck_ , I haven’t felt like that in…well, ever,”

“I can make you feel like that as often as you want,” Kevin’s grin couldn’t be wider. He draws Alastair’s svelte frame closer, not sure what he’s thinking. It isn’t quite lust – though he wouldn’t turn down having the man again when he is so open to submission – but a simple wish to have Alastair close to him. A lonely body, perhaps, just craving attention of the one thing too-willing to offer company.

Alastair’s impish hands slap his chest as a semi-faux reprimand. He doesn’t move though. “Stop being such an egotistical dick.”

“Cant stop,” Kevin mutters as he leans forwards and places an open-mouthed kiss to Alastair’s pursed lips. “Won’t stop.”

\--

At some stage through the play, Kevin starts to wonder if Alastair is extracting some form of revenge on him for being so recklessly rough, perhaps even for removing _sex_ from his life until his body could face it again. Because he bats so beautifully, with the technical skill and grace of an exotic dancer and is adamant not to endanger Joe’s position beside him (he had also overheard the Captain instruct his fellow Opener that there would be _no_ risky singles). So the assumption that Alastair wants to keep him in the dressing room for as long as possible doesn’t seem too far fetched.

It tortures him for sure, at Lunch unable to _touch_ how he wants and Alastair only surrenders kisses that never get too far. He remains in the dressing room for the rest of the day, almost pinned to his seat by the window. No one remarks upon it because they’re working, and because that is just the nature of Alastair’s affairs. It doesn’t really occur to Kevin that he’s the only one that has ever been so fixated on their captain before.

For the rest of the Test, Kevin staves off any form of release, though the temptation is there. When he gets back to the privacy of his hotel room and laying in bed tense and too-eager, _alone_ because of an impulsive decision that he still can’t entirely regret, all he wants is to curl his hand around his cock and free himself from the hold Alastair has on him. But it would just _spoil_ what he knows is coming.

He just doesn’t know _when_.

It finally happens on the second night of the third test. Things had escalated over the last game, yet nothing had improved. The day had been spent at the crease opposite Cook in a reprise of their new favourite game. As soon as they had gotten back and eaten, Kevin shut himself away in his room, not trusting himself after every little smirk and bitten lip Alastair teased him with, full-well _knowing_ what he was doing.

The knock on the door is unexpected, and Kevin assumes it’s anyone but the Captain. He quickly pulls on the closest shirt and opens the door , one headphone still in though he’s paused the music. Alastair stands, hands not quite on his hips, but his fingers fidget amongst themselves like he’s deciding whether or not to adopt the posture. He doesn’t need to, because all his confidence is in the half-smirk he wears.

“You’re completely sure you want to do this?” is all he says.

Kevin can’t quite believe his ears, so he doesn’t. All he chooses is to see his handsome Captain, hair pushed back to reveal all of his face, wearing another tight white shirt and offering himself up without saying it. Kevin reaches out and _takes_. He takes a hold of Alastair’s shoulders and pulls him in, kicking the door shut with his heel.

He tries to lean in for a kiss, seeing the question as absolutely pointless. Had they not spent the last two weeks _fucking around_ without the aforementioned _fucking_? Their kisses had hardly been chaste and twice Alastair had worked Kevin to an erection in his palm, always leaving the room that pivotal moment too soon. Kevin’s been committed to this for a while. It doesn’t need saying.

Alastair jerks back with a finger raised, barring their lips from contact. “I want an answer, Kev,” he continues. His voice is strong, but he practically _melts_ the moment Kevin slips his arms around his waist and pulls him flush. Kevin cranes down to nip his teeth up the pronounced muscle in Alastair’s neck, all the way up to his ear lobe. He doesn’t miss how Alastair shivers when he brushes the bare patch of skin under his ear.

He murmurs back, deep in his throat and slides his hands down the back of the Englishman’s trousers and underwear. He’s so certain of his answer and it can’t just be because of a lustful haze. He could have had _anyone_ in the days passed, but it was just _Alastair Cook_ on his mind. Just the thought of him, here and now, has his cock stirring awake with remarkable vitality. “I want this. I want _you_.”

Alastair all but groans, smiling, relieved, and finally fits one hand around Kevin’s jaw to direct him around for a kiss. They both hum into it, open-mouthed and hungry. They’ve shared kisses like this since _that_ night, but never with the promise of sex fuelling them. He hasn’t felt so virile in a while, rubbing himself into Alastair and feeling him getting hard just as fast. Kevin threads his fingers into Alastair’s hair whilst the other hand teases down the cleft of his buttocks, rubbing firmly and insistently, getting ever lower.

Alastair makes his little noise of appreciation and leans closer with his hips, angled just so Kevin can get to his target. He breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together like it's a methord to make him focus. “ _Lube_ , KP, or I’m going.”

He can’t help but chuckle at the contrast between the Captain’s mind and body, but follows the instruction of the former. He doesn’t doubt the threat for a second. There’s only so many days Alastair can go, if the good-humoured taunts in the dressing room are to be believed, without sex. And Kevin most certainly does not want to make a habit of denying him it.

Pulling away, he turns to one of his bags and digs around in it for the little bottle of lubricant he had brought with him. He finds it vaguely amusing that Alastair just assumes he has some, and what the Englishman would do if he didn’t. A little voice says that maybe Alastair would have left and gone to someone else, never to return to this room again. Because if Kevin isn’t prepared for their affair then he sees it as impulsive, and Kevin’s track-record of impulses is an archive of risks and ruins.

Alastair’s nearly undressed when Kevin turns back. His jeans and shoes lay in a pile at the side of the bed and he stands at the foot of it, patiently in his boxers and that fitting shirt. He looks down at the bottle Kevin holds and sneers a bit.

“What?” he asks, frowning and looking down at it. Sure it’s a small bottle and not the fancy stuff Alastair seems to favour, but he bought it himself for himself. And snobbery over _lubricants_ is a ridiculous thing to even be thinking about at the best times, least of all when it is just a tool to be utilised.

“Nothing,” Alastair replies with a slight chuckle. He reaches forwards and pulls Kevin closer by his shirt before pulling the whole thing up. Kevin finishes the job and casts it aside. Alastair’s hands are flat on his abdomen, wandering and scratching; sliding downwards and making quick work of his trousers fastenings.

With his free hand, Kevin pushes them down and leans his head back, utterly indulgent as Alastair slips his hands into his underwear. How he’s _missed_ this confident, demanding touch. A hand through his trousers was simply not enough. He _loves_ how those long fingers curl around his length; the palms slightly rough from years of batting.

The Captain smirks, lips brushing in a not-kiss to Kevin’s earlobe. “Hope you don’t mind, but foreplay isn’t desperately high on my list of priorities.”

There was probably a time when Kevin would have been elated to hear such a thing, and there probably will be in the near future, but here and now he has to hold back his initial instinct to laugh. Cook has consciously tortured him for nearly two weeks. He is not getting off so lightly, and confessing his impatience, his _desperation_ only fuels Kevin’s intent.

He pushes Alastair back sharply, hands and all falling onto the bed behind him with a surprised and disgruntled grunt upon impact. Kevin nudges his legs apart, standing between them as he casts the lubricant to the mattress. Alastair is half smirking again now and wriggles eagerly as he is stripped. He probably thinks that the sooner he’s naked, the sooner Kevin will be in him.

So he frowns when Kevin makes a point of picking up the bottle again and remaining in his boxers. Though his dark eyebrows furrow, confused and indignant, his eyes are hazy and betray a keenness for whatever is coming and it is so endearing Kevin has to lean down and kiss his pursed lips.

“You deserve this,” he says low and softly, almost taking the threat out of it, as he uncaps the lube to blindly squirt an amount onto his palm. Of course it’s not meant in malice, yet he’s still all sneers and narrowed eyes as he teases his slick fingers around the base Alastair’s rigid shaft. Never enough for a true sensation, but just enough for the Captain to hiss in a breath between bared teeth, grinning and then laughing like he’s chastising himself for being so stupid.

Kevin trails his fingers lower, spreading the clear lubricant as he massages so gingerly that he can feel muscles shiver under the skin. He nudges Alastair’s legs further apart and sinks to his knees. He doesn’t miss how Alastair’s breath hitches, or how his face adopts an expression that’s positively giddy. It’s the first time he’s done this, and strangely, Kevin isn’t the slightest bit apprehensive. 

Alastair’s fingers cup around the back of his head, though it’s hardly a directing hold. He thinks it’s because Alastair might _expect_ him to be nervous about this. Kevin has no qualms about accepting the invitation to be slow, to be _gentle_. Not only is he determined to reduce Cook to a simmering puddle of _need_ , but he also wants the man as aroused as possible, so his muscles are relaxed enough that it is guaranteed he will suffer no pain when Kevin pushes himself inside that slender, sleek body.

From the start, he’d found the Englishman’s cock attractive and holds no reservations to wrapping his other hand around it, angling it just right for him to press his lips to the head.  Alastair gasps, blunt nails scratching the back of Kevin’s neck ever-so-slightly, but still he doesn’t move.

It hits him only now that he had _little_ idea what to do. Of course he’s enjoyed being blown himself countless times – Alastair’s gladly done it at least four times – but he’s always been too busy _enjoying_ to pay much attention to technique and whatnot. He chooses to see it more as exploration over his apprehension, and Kevin’s always sought to learn new things.

With only an air of tentativeness, Kevin swathes his tongue around the tip of Alastair’s length; momentarily taking just a bit into his mouth to suck gently on. When he looks up, the Englishman’s biting his lip, propped up on one elbow, and those dark eyes are fixated upon him.

So striking, yet no where near flushed enough with pleasure, Kevin closes his eyes again and dips his head a little lower.

“ _Hmm_ , Kev,” comes a murmur that sounds like it’s from smirking lips and with every successive inch  he takes in, Alastair gasps, exhales deeply and inevitably falls back to the mattress. He never takes more than half the shaft past his lips; keeping suction to a minimum. He doesn’t want Cook coming without being around his cock.

Kevin waits, still shallowly bobbing his head, for Alastair to relax and surrender to him. It’s almost too easy. Especially considering his original objective. And why _would_ he turn down England’s Greatest Batsman blowing him? When Alastair seems content with just this, he slips his lubricated hand down between the Captain’s legs.

He palms the fluid across his hole and the soft skin around it, though it feels like Alastair already took care of a little himself. The man wriggles, either out of eagerness or further frustration. Kevin can’t tell and doesn’t exactly care. He’s doing this whether it drives Alastair crazy or not. Hopefully the former.

As soon as his fingertips brush his entrance, just the _slightest_ bit to work in the lubricant, Alastair moans, canting his hips up and forwards, “God, _please_.”

Kevin has to smirk, secretly thankful that he had only a little of cock in his mouth when Alastair moved. And keeps moving, rubbing himself down on the fingers that the South African consciously denies him.

The more he denies, the more noise Alastair makes. Frustrated little barks, interjected with moans because Kevin’s lips are still wrapped around him, still wet and warm and sucking so gently that his mind must be screaming for _more_.

Just when the nails around the back of his neck start to dig in with intent, Kevin pulls back, letting that sensitive, shiny head rest against his lips. “You’re so easy, Chef,” he taunts and lets all the vibrations of his tone run up and along Alastair’s cock. “Easy to control.”

“I’ll sing a bloody _song_ for you if it’ll get you in me.”

“Oh?” Kevin grins, cheekily before curling his lips around the very _tip_ of the Captain’s length.

Rubbing his fingers a little harder, his index finger worms inside just to the second knuckle. Just enough to massage Alastair’s prostate the slightest bit, so the man moans rather than coming out with some form of conventional music. Kevin pulls it back out, rejoining its wicked twins. “Liar.”

“You prick,” Alastair rasps. His eyes are still closed, jaw tense but his chest is not quite heaving. “You _owe_ me. You fucking _owe_ me.”

With a raised eyebrow, Kevin languidly kisses along Alastair’s cock. Sure, he can see why the Captain feels that way. Two weeks he’s gone without sex. But over those weeks, he had had his revenge. All debt is now invalid. Kevin’s not in the mood to argue the toss over something that doesn’t matter. He did what he did. It proved a point, and got Alastair to spread his legs for him again.

He shifts on his knees, settling in to be here for a while. Suckling on the underside of Alastair’s cock, he curiously rubs his fingertips around the slick pink flesh between his legs.

“ _Please_ , Kevin,” the Captain’s tone is eventually softer, somewhat surprisingly. Kevin raises himself up, keeping his fingers just _barely_ against Alastair’s body, to find that handsome face staring right back at him. Both hands around his head try to draw him up, but Kevin refuses, smirking. He presses his fingers a little harder to his entrance, but only for a moment. Black eyebrows furrow and Alastair’s pale lips twist. “Finger or fuck me, do _something._ ”

It’s good enough.

Kevin’s not even sure how much longer he could hold off. And it’s probably best to fuck him soon, because any much longer, he might lose control of himself and end up hurting Alastair again.

He presses his lips to Alastair’s navel, flicking his tongue into the indentation as he slides two fingers into his body. There’s little resistance, and the muscles don’t even react to the intrusion. Alastair does, arching and moaning. Pleasure continues to be voiced as Kevin rewards such beauty with a slow and deliberate rub of his prostate. But then he withdraws a little, spreading the digits and re-loosening the muscles of Alastair’s entrance.

The Captain’s stomach rises and falls drastically, creating a motion that Kevin follows. He trails his tongue along all the defined ridges of muscle, though he never once goes above the bottom rib.

Alastair’s hands grip him tighter still, right around the curve of his occipital, determined to pull him up. “I’m ready, Kev. I’m _ready_ ,” he ushers. As strong as he is, Kevin has to admit that he slides himself up the length of Alastair’s form, half-blanketing him and turning his head for that kiss that has been so desperately sought for.

Immediately, the Englishman’s hands roam down his back, to his hips and push his boxers down enough that he can twist his legs up to guide them to the floor with his feet. It’s just the show of athletic flexibility that Kevin has secretly fantasised over. He catches one of those long legs as they try to fall back down, hand tucked into the crook of his knee.

It spreads his hole open, and Kevin hums impatiently because he can just feel his brain relinquishing its control to heady desire. “You sure?” he murmurs, eyes cracking open to survey Alastair’s expression. The only twist to it is of dissatisfaction.

“Yes, Kev,” he manages to smile, “Couldn’t _be_ any looser.”

“And without a condom?”

“Please stop torturing me,” the Captain grumbles.

Kevin chuckles, stealing a minute kiss more with Alastair’s bottom lip than anything else. Because he wants to hear that sigh of loss that always comes when he pulls his fingers out. Because he wants to hear the groan of lucid excitement when he locks their hips; the head of his cock in just the right place, right angle. Because he wants to hear that most delirious of moans as he pushes inside.

One hand keeps its grip on Alastair’s leg and the other presses against the mattress, allowing Kevin to raise himself just enough to regard that exquisite face. White teeth bite into his plush lip, either forming the first fricative of a curse or simply because it feels so good to finally have what he wants. Wanted for two weeks. Black lashes flutter and the deeper Kevin sinks in, the more Alastair’s lips twist into a grin.

“You’re so beautiful.”

He only notices that the words he’s always thought had finally slipped out when Alastair’s eyes flick open to meet his. “You feel so damn _good_ ,” is what he offers in reply. And it leaves Kevin feeling slightly… odd. Undeniably it’s a stroke to his ego, and only what every guy likes to hear in the circumstances, but… he feels slightly disappointed.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t, because sex is sex and that’s what they’re having. In fact, he should be relieved that Alastair sees his compliment as just that hysteria otherwise it would get awkward. Maybe even stop altogether. Kevin ducks his head, planning to keep his tongue occupied in Alastair’s mouth. In the back of his head, he blames lack of conscious thought on keeping his concentration on _gentleness._ He's just confused.

But he keeps it gentle, rocking his hips more than thrusting. The penetration is in no way shallow, and Alastair’s tight enough that all too soon, Kevin knows he won’t last long. He lets the Captain’s leg fall back down to the mattress, aching to touch as Alastair caresses every part of him he can reach. Never once do those nails bite into his skin, but they tickle sensitive places as they explore, making him shiver and groan, pulling out of whatever kiss they’re in to moan his name.

“Kev,” Alastair all but calls back to him. They’re pretty much the only two words that echo between them, personal and intimate. His head presses back into the bed as he arches up because at this angle, he can rub his cock against Kevin’s abdomen, getting that extra stimulus as the other batsman keeps their hips moving in an increasing pace.

It feels amazing. Alastair’s thumbs rub his nipples as he pulls him down, closer. Kevin dips his head, sucking in deep breaths as he nibbles that sensitive bare skin by the man’s ear. He savours the moans in his ear and when the pitch changes, he rises back up – to see Alastair’s face one more time as his climax overwhelms him.

The strength of it takes the bliss a touch closer to the painful side of intense, with his mouth wide open in a silent scream. Kevin can only appreciate it for three seconds before his chin falls to his chest and he’s thrusting with all his strength. Alastair’s so tight, and their bodies slide against each other now with their respective fluids. In three sharp jerks and a guttural moan into the Captain’s clavicle, he’s spent himself and falls down with his whole weight on his elbows either side of Alastair’s head. Every ounce of energy feels sapped from him, and in its place lingers a memory of ecstasy.

“You’re amazing,” the Englishman smiles up at him, all misty eyes and pink lips. It’s a variant of what he had said after the first time they had sex, but now it feels more genuine and more like a compliment than simple flattery. In fact, it feels as sincere as Kevin had meant not so long ago.

He responds to such sincerity with another, softer kiss. Alastair’s hands curl around his neck momentarily before falling to his shoulders and to his hands, tugging them aside like he wants Kevin fully atop him. But that smaller body is sticky and Kevin feels that it must be uncomfortable too with the mess between his legs, and starts to slide back to stand. “I’ll get a flannel—”

“Don’t,” Alastair murmurs and clasps tighter to his hands. His eyes are wide and his mouth ajar before he purses his lips for a second. “I mean, you don’t have to. Lie back down,” he tugs insistently and Kevin obeys, settling on his side, regarding Alastair in profile.

Everything about his expression is still dazed; much softer now yet just as happy as he had looked at the crease as he played shots that made Kevin’s hands sweat even more. He finds himself smiling and drapes one arm over Alastair’s waist since it seems like they’d be staying like this for a while. “You can’t stand up, can you?”

“I can’t _feel_ my legs,” Alastair confesses and turns his head. He looks like nothing could please him more. “We should fuck less if it feels like that.”

Scoffing, Kevin rubs his hand up Alastair’s torso and cups his strong jaw. As much as he appreciated such a powerful climax, he’s not sure he could weather another two weeks of torture from this face. He’s much too impatient and tactile not to give in after a few days. And he indulges that latter vice yet, drawing Alastair closer for a kiss. He presses their mouths together and slides his tongue into that other mouth the first opportunity he gets. Never quite pulling away, he confidently rumbles, “Would you really want that?”

Alastair groans, smiling, and slithers up so he’s half-laying on Kevin. His skin is already cool again as Kevin wraps his arms around his waist. That mop of dark hair rests on his shoulder. It’s a surprisingly comfortable position bearing in mind that this kind of lingering contact is not something they’ve ever indulged in before.

For a while they’re silent, catching their breath. Then Alastair sighs as he’s still beaming. “I can’t believe you convinced me that this is a good idea.”

“You didn’t put up much of a fight.”

“How _could_ I?” Alastair chuckles and repositions himself with his hands neatly tucked under his chin. It’s hardly an angle that’s easy for Kevin to keep eye contact, but they both seem as tired as each other. “You make a good argument.”

Kevin squeezes Alastair’s waist like he thinks of the comment as nothing but flattery. But he’s thinking that the Englishman makes a better one still. His _reasons_ for rejecting Kevin’s advances are concrete, important; they’re logical and every part of Kevin knows he should accept them, yet here he is with Alastair in his arms and he feels anything but worried for his family. Guilt nibbles at him, but its sharpness decreases the longer he stays, like it’s somehow giving up trying to get him to leave.

“ _And_ you’re just too much to resist.”

The Captain’s eyes fall shut. Kevin rests his head back against the mattress. What he said echoes, both because of its worth as further gratification, but rekindling an old wonder that has been all but forgotten under the pleasure that seizes the time they spend together outside of their professional lives. Grasping Alastair’s hips, Kevin draws little circles with his thumbs into the valley of his pelvis. “You managed it before, for a while.”

Alastair just hums and taps his fingertips twice on his chest.

“Why?” Kevin asks, his curiosity taking the opportunity to rise when his mind is fried and incapable of anything more intellectual. And the short, lazily-uttered questions keep him awake. He momentarily raises his head to find Alastair staring blankly at his chest. “Why didn’t you approach me before?”

The man shrugs and purses his lips. “As I said, you would’ve punched me if I came to you. Wouldn’t you?”

Kevin thinks, and once upon a time he would have confirmed it straight away. But now he starts to doubt. Because had Alastair came to him, he probably would have thought it some joke, but some joke would have sowed the seed that had sprouted in him those nights they had shared a room. He might have been initially repulsed, but may have given in eventually. Just as he had. “I might not have,” he finally drawls back and squeezes the lean form he holds.

He waits for Alastair to reply, but it never comes. He knows the man isn’t sleeping because his pattern of breath hasn’t changed. And a glance reveals him still staring into an imaginary landscape forged from flesh and sweat.

“What made me any different to the others? They’re _straight_ —” he stops to frown when Alastair scoffs derisively but it’s just a short sound that tells him that obviously his impression of his teammates is _again_ misinformed. He doesn't want to know. “They’re _married_. None of that stuff has ever bothered you before...” he smirks, feeling cockiness energising his voice and expression. “Is it just because I’m what you like? What you _want_?”

Kevin slides his hands around to Alastair’s bottom, giving it a firm clasp. “Were you afraid of getting addicted? Enjoying me _too_ much? Not being able to stop?”

Suddenly, Alastair pulls away, so sharply it’s like his scrambling to escape. Glowering and tense, he doesn’t care where his hands or knees go. “Can you not?” he snaps and Kevin realises that he’s trying to find the edge of the bed to get up.

He grabs Alastair’s forearm and tugs it back. He’s bewildered, partly over what has upset the Captain but mostly because he finds that he doesn’t want to be alone. “I’m sorry, Chef,” he murmurs and when Alastair turns, his dark eyes not quite narrow, but they’re weary and distant, he offers a smile by way of apology, “I wasn’t making fun of you.”

With a grunt and a frown that forms ridges in his forehead as deep as the cracks of the WACA pitch, Alastair settles back down. Not as close as before, but he doesn’t resist as Kevin pulls him closer. When he’s comfortable, with his head on the South African’s chest and one arm slung over his hips, Kevin lays back and smiles. It’s good to finally have someone to share warmth with as his body calms and cools from its strain. The company makes him feel slightly less guilty about the sex, no longer sneaking around like church-mice like it’s something to be ashamed of. Because he doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth.

“I’m glad we’ve got this,” Kevin says just as he yawns.

No reply comes for about a minute. He feels Alastair blink twice; long lashes brushing his skin, and that jaw moving as he thinks whatever he’s thinking. And then a chaste kiss is pressed to him. “Me too.”

Almost grinning and not completely understanding why, Kevin finally allows for sleep to wash over him. He loosens his grip on Alastair, knowing that the man will surely get up and return to his room when he is able.


	7. Chapter 7

Having not shut his curtains last night, the rising sun practically blasts through his East-facing window and casts its light down upon Kevin’s face. He stirs, frowning and lifting one arm only to drape it over his face to block out the glare. The air con is buzzing from the far corner of the room, but he isn’t especially cold.

Now he’s conscious, his body starts to ache, so he makes to stretch the tension away. And that’s when he notices the weight on his chest; the warmth that comes from another body, and the long legs that twine around his own.

Alastair is still deeply asleep, breathing in slow and heavily. His handsome face is smooth and his lips are delicately pulled upwards at the sides. The sun casts an odd glow behind him, making his hair more like a mocha-colour than black. Kevin catches himself staring, and catches his fingers gently carding through that tousled mop, and scoffs.

Having sex with a man is one thing, but _sleeping_ with them is another. He can count the girls he’s spent a whole night with like this on one hand. Maybe two if he includes the times he’s woken up in bed without a memory of the night before. But there is absolutely no will within him to push Alastair from him, or wake the man up. He looks absolutely serene; nothing less than a work of fine art.

But does this mean that he’s _gay_? Kevin’s been so wrapped up in a mess of attraction and lust, he’s barely had a moment to think about it. Even when he _did_ have a moment, it is the last thing he wants to contemplate. Now the subject is unavoidable. He’s holding Alastair how he holds his wife and as wrong as he knows it is, it feels _natural_.

He still loves his wife. He knows that because the thought of losing her makes his stomach churn. And he knows that the night he gets back to London is not going to be one spent sleeping. But still, he will not move from this spot.

Tentatively, he slides his fingers back through the sleeping Captain’s hair and brushes his fringe out of his face. Alastair only stirs, quietly mewling and twisting his body to better fit Kevin’s where he had moved as he woke. One thigh brushes against his groin, and his cock that had risen before him. With those legs spread, Kevin can imagine having sex with him like this. Half-asleep, and Alastair’s probably still wet enough from the night before, it would be slow and languid, deep and dreamlike; their tongues without inhibitions and bodies sliding together on nothing but primal instinct.

For a moment, testing himself and his doubts, Kevin imagines Alastair as another teammate. Stuart. Supposedly the pretty one and the one he’s heard the most comments about. Made in jest, though nowadays he doubts everything. He had thought Alastair straight, and how wrong he had been.

He imagines that head of blonde hair between his fingers; that lean, fair body on his and almost gags. He can’t even _bring_ himself to imagine anything more. And it’s the same for Jimmy, Joe and Matt. The latter makes him shiver and he’s more convinced than he ever could be that _No_ , _he’s not gay_.

It’s just Alastair.

As odd as it is. Whether just his sleep-muddled brain, or simple logic, Kevin decides that an answer to that revelation just _isn’t_ important. And why should it be? Sex is sex. It’s pleasure and he’s not going to turn down something this good. He’ll enjoy this for as long as it lasts and when it reaches its end, he can return to his wife knowing that nothing has changed.

For now, he lets his desire take control again. He shuffles as gently as he can, moving his hands down to Alastair’s hips to tug him fully atop his body with those legs spread. An angle like this won’t get him very deep inside that body, but he doesn’t have to.

The change of position isn’t smooth enough and Alastair wakes, cracking his eyes open groggily. He frowns for the split second it takes for him to register the erection pressing against his backside. Then he’s smiling with just a glimmer of teeth between pale lips. He moves like some sort of snake, wrapping his arms around Kevin’s neck and adjusting the angle of his hips so _easily_ to just the one Kevin knows he wants.

As he presses in, Alastair leans down, their lips almost together. “ _Hmm,_ and good morning to you, too.”

\--

Over the next two weeks, they only have sex three times. Not through lack of wanting, but Alastair was right: the less they had it, the better it is. And keeping that in mind somehow manages to change the kisses they steal during the day from foreplay to simply kissing. Enjoyable and without pressure and frustration. So Kevin kisses him more. Sometimes just because he wants to. And Alastair echoes the gesture.

They spend more time together when they’re able. They sit and talk on the balcony when they’re out about anything and everything. Kevin discovers more about Alastair in 14 days then he has in all the years they’ve played together and it makes him feel so much more comfortable. Being close to the Captain is a sense of inclusion that he’s always craved down to his core. It’s much more now than what it had felt like the night after he first gave into Alastair’s temptation. No longer is he alienated because of his close-minded ignorance.

Spending time with Alastair feels _natural_. Like Kevin feels drawn to the man and loves to see him smile and hear him laugh. He finds himself at the Captain’s door one night with a bag of popcorn in one hand and _Skyfall_ in the other. Knocking three times, he stands back and ponders what if Alastair isn’t alone. What if Andy’s in with him and he has to think up some plausible excuse as to his presence.

Kevin pulls at his shirt, denying to himself the pettiness of nervousness. It’s the first time he’s worn it and he can’t help but think maybe it’s a little too tight around his chest. The door swings open and Alastair immediately grins. “Good evening,” those dark eyes flick down, taking him in and shining with appreciation and Kevin knows that the shirt definitely is too tight, but that hardly matters anymore. He loves that look he receives and has to clench his fist around the bag because his fingers want to shape to that jawline and tilt it upwards to kiss.

“How about it?” he holds forth what he’s brought eager to be inside and in private.

The Englishman chuckles quietly and steps backwards. “Can’t refuse that, can I?”

Kevin walks straight in, casting the popcorn to Alastair and continues over to the TV that hangs on the wall opposite the bed. Either he does it because he actually wants to spend the evening watching the film, or he wants Alastair to get flustered as he usually does when he feels ignored. He doesn’t really know which. But he rumbles a laugh when he feels Cook’s hands land and slide from his hips, around his bottom and up the back of his shirt.

“Chef,” he says in a warning tone and casts a glance over his shoulder as he cracks open the DVD case. They way he feels blunt nails scratching little pink lines over sensitive areas makes him bite his lip to keep focused. All he gets in reply is something like a giggle and warm lips against the nape of his neck.

“Can’t even thank you for picking a decent film?”

Kevin fingers the edge of the box as he puts it to the cabinet top. Is he being too obvious in picking something he knows the Captain really enjoyed? Maybe even sickeningly sweet? He doesn’t know the reason, or understand what even drove him other than wanting to be with Alastair and not wanting to run the risk of being rejected. And just as much, he doesn’t want to end up naked and between those legs, so he chose something that would be _watched_. Well, _most_ of it.

The moment the DVD’s in the player and its whirring its way into life, Kevin turns and loops his arms loosely around Alastair’s waist and pulls him closer.  “You can now,” he leans down and presses their mouths together. A soft touch that only deepens when Alastair threads his hands into his hair, opening his mouth and he steps blindly back towards the bed.

Four paces and they fall. The kiss breaks with a breathless gasp and Alastair’s beaming with dark-pink lips and rosy cheeks. Kevin can’t resist dipping to continue, leaving pecks around the Englishman’s mouth; down one side of his jaw and down his neck to come back up. He feels like a teenager, finally alone in the bedroom on the pretence of ‘just hanging out’. It’s going exactly how he wants it to.

Until the film actually begins and Alastair shoves him to one side. He then shimmies up the bed to settle amongst the pillows, back against the headboard. Kevin is surprised and a little disgruntled, frowning up at the odd angle he’d fallen to, more on his back than his side. Alastair spares him one glance. His eyes glitter with mirth and mischief and Kevin realises that this is his payment for initially ignoring Cook when he first came in. And maybe even including earlier on in day when he had cornered Alastair in the bathroom; whispered a dirty promise into the back of his ear before vanishing and spending the rest of the day with Jonathan.

He scoffs to himself and clambers up to join the Englishman. It is so pleasing to have an equal like this: someone who gives as good as he gets. Kevin’s had girlfriends before who either just let whatever he did slide or took everything as a personal slight. Jessica plays games with him, so asides from the obvious, inevitable pleasure, doing so with Alastair makes Kevin feel more comfortable.

So comfortable in fact that he slides his arm between Alastair’s neck and the headboard as they watch the film. Cook leans into him, shuffling a little closer but settles more into the popcorn than any form of embrace.

Kevin’s not the type who can sit and watch a film – especially as long a film as _Skyfall_ – and cannot help but feel crestfallen that Alastair’s all but enraptured with it. He can only occasionally steal a kiss, or nibbles at an ear, or feeds him a few pieces of popcorn and tricks him every now and then into another kiss. Yet the film drags on and it’s never enough.

Surrendering not to defeat, but to patience, Kevin settles with his head back against the wall and focuses on the TV through half-closed eyes. The constant weight of Alastair’s head on his shoulder and the warmth that counters the air con makes him smile. So the evening might not be going to his plan, but he doesn’t feel the need to be anywhere else.

He only notices that he’s fallen asleep when he comes to. The TV is off and the blinking lights of the city gleam from behind the curtains. Groggily, he rolls his neck free from the tension of sleeping at an awkward angle and looks down, finding Alastair curled against him with glittering eyes, looking up at him from his chest.

“Were you watching me sleep?” the South African yawns and takes the opportunity to stretch his arms before they fall heavily back around his captain’s waist. He can’t even remember adopting the position and thinks that maybe Alastair man-handled him, which is odd, yet endearing.

Alastair’s smile finally takes to his lips and he cranes up to press the gentlest of kisses to Kevin’s mouth. He’s too lethargic to do much more than purse his lips. “Problem?” he murmurs as they part.

Humming a reply that should have been enigmatic yet its laziness only reveals how much Kevin _didn’t mind_ , he turns his head to find the little clock on the bedside table. Next to the bottle of lube they had last used four nights before hand (and probably left out in wishful thinking), the red numbers read the early hours of the morning. They have a day in the nets ahead of them, then a proposed press conference in the late afternoon. He groans, momentarily squeezing Alastair.

“We should get some sleep.”

The Captain makes a noise of agreement, blinking slowly. He leans in again to plant slightly harder, yet just as sweet, pecks around his mouth. He finishes with a smaller, more tentative smile and one hand caressing Kevin’s face. “Are you staying?”

“So long as you sleep,” he replies, turning his head just enough to kiss that warm palm. “and don’t creep on me.”

Alastair pouts like a reprimanded child and languidly rolls to the end of the bed. Kevin does likewise, landing on the opposite side and undresses. They’ve done this a few times now. It’s become a bit of a habit. Alastair uses the bathroom first whilst Kevin folds his clothes over the arm of the sofa. Kevin would join him at the sink and use the new toothbrush that had appeared one night. Alastair would slip behind him to leave, trailing his hand across his back as a wordless invitation and request to not deliberate.

When Kevin ambles back into the bedroom, Alastair’s just climbing under the covers and settles to face the covered window. The South African flicks off the room light and turns the TV off completely before sliding into bed. He wraps one arm around the Captain’s waist to pull him back and close enough that the sheets quickly warm around them. Alastair moulds his body almost perfectly to his, taking his arm in his hands and holding it tight to his chest.

“Good night, Babe,” Kevin whispers, putting the very last of his energy into his teasing vocative and a likewise kiss to the back of Alastair’s ear.

“G’night, Kev,” 


	8. Chapter 8

Having three days off in India means three days of being confined in the hotel. Kevin doesn’t mind so much when the winning team is in high spirits. Games and conversations are lively, time consuming and fun. It’s easy to forget that they haven’t been outside for a while. He doesn’t join in the fun so much as he sits in the corner of the room they’re all congregated in. The youths of the team occupy the games console and make enough noise that sometimes he has to raise his head from his laptop to see what all the fuss is about.

It would probably be easier to keep on top of his business and investments in the privacy of his own room, but he doesn’t want the hassle of being accused of being antisocial. Again. Though the reason he’s been leaving dinners early and no longer spending evenings with his fellow South African-born players has black hair and a physique he quite foolishly kissed a little too hard the night before.

He had caught Alastair that morning inspecting the dark red blotch on his shoulder blade in the mirror and apologised. Alastair had simply laughed, though there were worried undertones, and said he’d appreciate it if next time he ‘ _found a less obvious place_ ’. True to his nature, it was said with a cheeky smile and Kevin took it as a challenge.

With an upcoming tour of Australia, Alastair’s been spending more and more time with the coaches and other staff important in organising and selecting, and often drops into Kevin’s room late at night and falls asleep easily. Last night had been the exception. Alastair had been excitable, giddy and when the door to the room opens now, the man walks in wearing much the same expression.

The others greet him warmly, varying from his name to a fond ‘Skip’, yet few look away from the projection of the game on the wall. Kevin glances up, smiles, then looks back down. As subtly as he can, he shuffles across the two-seater sofa he had stolen for himself and a moment later it distorts under the weight of another.

Steven and Stuart share an armchair a few feet away and though they spare the batsmen little attention, Kevin still feels a little odd when Alastair leans close. He’s not ashamed, and knows that the others know they’ve had sex, but the frequency of it, and the fact they sleep side-by-side now is something he’d like to keep quiet. This is almost a full-blown affair, they just need the romantic attachment to complete the scandal, and something he’d rather not let the others be aware of.

Though, if Steven sitting on Stuart’s lap is still considered as _platonic_ , maybe the Captain simply leaning in – and with his flirtatious reputation – means nothing to everyone. Still, it must look a bit odd because Jimmy keeps on glancing at them from across the room.

Deciding to give Alastair a reason to be so close, Kevin shuts his laptop and turns to him. “Good meeting?”

“Dull, as always,” he replies quietly. It’s a lie, because Alastair always keeps his cards close to his chest when it comes to things like this. It’s not until much later that he’ll disclose all that he and Andy have planned.

Kevin scoffs quietly and adjusts his position, crossing his legs and laying back with his arms spread and running along the back of the sofa behind Alastair’s head. He only really notices when the Captain leans into it, and another glance from Jimmy garners a frown. But to move would only draw further attention.

“You look so bored,”

He just hums, not taking his eyes off the screen. Alastair’s far too close, he can’t trust himself not to do something, say something or at least _look_ at him in anyway that isn’t one of ‘ _I am so close to kissing you_ ’.

Even the drab colours of the game’s location can’t help him when he feels Alastair’s right hand sneak between his back and the sofa. And those lips so close he shivers as warm air is blown down his neck. The Captain smirks. “Do you want to get up to no good?”

“Do you need an answer?” he whispers, grinning. He’s been serious and adult for hours, so it’s a perfect time to cut loose again.

Alastair scoffs loud enough to draw attention so it won’t look like they’re sneaking out of the room yet not enough attention that anyone would _remember_ them leaving. He stands up and walks out as Kevin gathers together his laptop and its charger before following. As a nervous precaution, he takes out his phone and pretends that he’s making a call.

In the corridor he finds Alastair stood with his hands on his hips, one eyebrow raised. He’s smiling. “I don’t know why you insist on doing stuff like that. No one gives a damn that we’re fucking.”

Kevin lowers his phone to his pocket and glances back towards the communal room. He doesn’t want to come out and openly confess that he doesn’t quite trust the others because it’s ridiculous. They are all friends. Friends would never actively seek to hurt each other. Plus, Alastair would only be sure to reaffirm that there is _nothing_ to worry about. So he lies. “I don’t need jealous glares.”

“Jealous? You still think you’re the only one I let warm my bed?”

Kevin sneers, taking a firm grasp of Alastair’s wrist and yanking him down the corridor to his room. And once in it, he forces the Captain back against the door and keeps him there with his body. His forearms rest against the wood and his fingers move though all that lush, sable hair. “They might be keeping your bed warm, whilst you’re sweating out a fever in mine.”

Alastair bites his lip as he always does when Kevin says something conceited. His slides his hands up the South African’s t-shirt, lightly tracing around his nipples. “I don’t recall you ever making me _sweat_.”

“You were delirious at the time.”

Making a delightful hum of arousal, Alastair tilts his head so slightly, eyes narrowed. He looks so feline. “Sounds fantastic.”

They meet for a kiss that’s as deep as it is long, angled just right as he slants Alastair’s jaw just a little more to the left. It’s enough to consume him, but he easily reads the Captain’s ambitions. The way he subtly submits, leaning back against the door, allowing Kevin’s weight to all but overwhelm him. His arms slide under Kevin’s armpits, pulling him tighter, closer and he can feel the heat building in that smaller body.

Kevin can remember, tortuously vivid, Alastair writhing and keening with his hands fisting the sheets so hard that he had marks in his palms for hours afterwards. He remembers how _nothing_ from the Englishman’s mouth was intelligible as pleasure came readily, but his climax was continually denied. Kevin relishes the thought of the dew on Alastair’s forehead and the slightest sheen that settled at his clavicle. A rare, precious flavour took to his tanned skin that Kevin likes to think he’s the only one to ever sample.

He groans so low it’s a rumbling growl in the depths of his throat and he pulls away, taking Alastair’s bottom lip with him until it springs free. “The answer is no, _darling_ ,” he coos. When he opens his eyes he sees Alastair biting his lip as he thinks of all the devious ways he can persuade him otherwise.

Smirking, Kevin presses their mouths back together. His hand gently tugs Alastair’s head back so that he can impose his dominance – his desire to keep this as simple as it is. Yet so very badly, Kevin wants to give in, or at least challenge Alastair to see if he could be so easily convinced. But he’s trying to be responsible. Trying to be mature and not that rampant teenager he’s decades too old to pretend to be now. And they’re more friends now than each other’s pleasure toy and Kevin values that.

"I've got a present for you," he mumbles against the Captain’s parted lips.

"Hmm, and nicely wrapped up too," Alastair licks his lips and trails his hand teasingly along the seam of Kevin's jeans between his legs. 

He allows the touch, enjoys it and how the slight pressure excites him, but he scoffs and leans back down to Alastair's ear. "Not that, you horny little brat,"

The Captain pouts for a moment before he smiles. It's childlike in its curiosity, almost innocent.  Kevin is reminded of exactly why he has become so fond of him, fond enough to spend money on him: there's so many facets to him, many that no one but a select few get to see. To be one of those is so gratifying that Kevin feels the need to give something back.  More than sex, because they are more than that now.

He leans in to gently kiss him before taking his hands and guiding him into the room. Alastair perches on the bed, gripping the ends of it as he stretches out his long legs. Kevin turns to his bags to find what he wants. When he glances back, the Captain’s expression has changed to something more like worry and he can’t fathom why. Maybe it’s just apprehension over what this _gift_ is.

Kevin grins as he finally picks it out. Still wrapped in the carrier bag he bought it in, he immediately hands it to Alastair who surveys it curiously. Cautiously.

“You really shouldn’t have,” he starts and Kevin just rolls his eyes, gesturing for him to open it.

Keeping that little frown, the Englishman unrolls the bag and pulls out the unopened box of a bottle of _Bleu de Chanel_. He’s surprised and looks at it before pursing his lips.

“I got it in Mumbai,” Kevin says without thinking. Mumbai had been a while ago, and the confession basically screams some form of cowardice that it’s taken this long for him to give it. Which is exactly the case – he never _had_ been brave enough, always wondering what Alastair would say or do; whether it was a step over the mark. He had spent many hours pondering the question as he stroked through Alastair’s hair as the man slept, and only now felt comfortable open himself up. It was his expression of gratitude for more than the sex, but the friendship he had gained. “As a thanks.”

“You _really_ shouldn’t have, Kev,” Alastair looks up at him. There’s a strange look in his eyes, like he’s questioning Kevin’s intentions, and maybe also a little scared. The South African doesn’t know why that would be and watches, a little stunned, as Alastair puts the perfume back into the bag. “I can’t accept it.”

“Why not?” he asks and takes the bag from those long fingers and pulls the box back out. He opens it, casting the plastic and paper aside. “Friends buy friends gifts, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but—”

“It’s a _gift_ , Ali. For my _friend_.”

Alastair sits stock-still with that same expression as Kevin sprays a little of the stuff on his exposed clavicle. “Kev,” he mumbles and Kevin scoffs quietly. He dips his head in, nuzzling the now much more fragrant skin of his neck.

“I want you to wear this for me,” he starts to nibble his way up to Alastair’s ear, and that sensitive flesh that always earns him a pleased intake of breath. “It really suits you.”

Slowly, Alastair raises his arms and slides one hand down Kevin’s shoulder to clasp one arm and the other takes the perfume bottle to inspect again. His mouth twists in thought and Kevin kisses the corner of it, waiting for the conclusion.

“Stu remarked the other day that I smelled like you… so, maybe it’s a good idea?”

Humming, Kevin pushes Alastair’s chin so he’s facing him fully again, just to press for a harder kiss. Something about the man _smelling_ of him sets a warm buzz in his stomach. Like some sign of possession much deeper than something like marking. That is lust-based, but the sharing of a scent is more a show of sharing time together. That reason had never crossed his mind when he decided to get Alastair the perfume because he hadn’t noticed it. All he knew is that when he had smelled it, the freshness and the sophistication, and yet conservative modesty of it reminded him of Alastair. He knew he wanted to smell it upon that tanned flesh and bought it without hesitation.

“Just don’t buy anything else for me, okay?”

“I’ll try,” Kevin chuckles, thinking again how easily persuaded the Captain is. Though he does doubt whether or not Alastair will actually accept it enough to wear it. As he sits down on the bed beside him, reaching out to continue kissing, he ponders how he would have reacted in Alastair’s place. Probably the same: wondering why – out of the blue – gifts were being offered. But he understands gratitude, generosity and fondness. There’s no reason for it to be odd or uncomfortable. Between friends.

Alastair lays back first, pulling Kevin on top of him and wriggles so his legs are spread and hooked either side of Kevin’s hips. The South African groans, palming his way down Alastair’s waist and pushes his shirt up. “I thought I said no sex.”

With a flighty giggle-like laugh, Alastair uses his position to easily roll them over, sitting on Kevin’s lap with the smugness of a cat, enjoying holding all the man’s attention. As he pulls his shirt off, Kevin rubs his hands along Alastair’s thighs. That body never ceases to stun him; forever ensuring that he’ll fantasise over his beauty at every chance he gets.

He reaches up, propped on one hand to kiss and caress Alastair’s torso as much as he can reach. When he licks delicately around one nipple, the Captain threads his hands back into his hair and holds him close. The shaky breath he releases makes Kevin grasp his waist that little bit tighter.

“No sex, he says,” Alastair muses, his head back on his shoulders.

Kevin can tell he’s only one thread away from rocking his hips, grinding their cocks together, so he falls back to the mattress, smirking. “Doesn’t mean I can’t get you worked up.”

“You’re one to ta—” he’s interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Kevin glances in its direction, frowning and wonders who it could be. “Ignore it,” Alastair mutters, bending now so that his lips brush Kevin’s ear.

That new scent fills his nostrils and the Captain is so warm with desire, hands slowly working their way up to his cheeks to turn his attention back. It’s easy to be distracted with him, but that knock comes again, insistently.

“I’ll be a sec,”

Alastair grunts and rolls onto his back, glowering at the ceiling as Kevin gets to his feet. As he paces to the door, he rights his shirt; tugs at his jeans to conceal as much as he can of the bulge he’s growing and ruffles his hair as he opens the door to disguise the fact that _his_ fingers hadn’t mussed it in the first place.

Jimmy stands in the corridor, thick, black eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle of his forehead. His hands are jammed into his tight trousers, and almost appear to ball into fists when the Lancastrian looks at the state of him. “You seen Cooky?”

Kevin bites the inside of his lip for a second, internally panicking over what to say. He had left with the Captain, and if Alastair was seen coming from his room later then—

“What is it?” Alastair’s voice calls out and Kevin jerks his head to see the man coming round the corner in the exact state he’d left him in – shirtless and obviously dishevelled. He could kill him, actually _how could you be so stupid_ kill him. Jimmy might be his best friend, but surely Alastair understands Kevin’s need to keep what they have a secret.

Turning back, Kevin catches Jimmy’s turbulent scowl. He decides to step back, allowing Alastair the doorway, before he questions the Bowler’s intentions and makes a scene. The two have never really seen eye-to-eye but Kevin senses something off with the man’s presence. He sits back on the bed, listening to their conversation.

Jimmy asks Alastair if he’ll be joining him and Graeme for dinner in his room. The tone of it sounds genuine, not that Kevin can really judge… but dinner isn’t for a good few hours, so Kevin can’t understand the need to ask him now. And why he had seemingly been _searching_ for Alastair for him to knock only on Kevin’s door. Unless he _expected_ Alastair to be there. But seeing as they had pretty much made it obvious, that can’t be of much importance. Not as much as why Jimmy had left playing the game to ask a question that needn’t be asked for quite some time.

Kevin frowns, rubbing his chin as he hears Alastair accept the invitation. They hadn’t any plans for that evening, so there’s no reason for him to feel disappointed. Absolutely no reason for him to feel _jealous_. Alastair is best friends with the pair. It’s only natural for them to spend time together. He’s stupid and selfish. He has his own friends to socialise with.

He sighs and throws himself back on the bed. The discarded perfume bottle slides down the indentation and hits his hip. Picking it up, he looks at the thing like it’s new to him. Like it’s the first clue to some great mystery. If all it meant was a gesture of gratitude, why had he deliberated in giving it for so long? And why had Alastair been so reluctant to accept it? And why does he want Alastair to wear it knowing that Kevin had bought it for him? As if every time he notices the scent, he is reminded of the fact that Kevin always wants to be on his mind.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Alastair re-enter the bedroom and immediately ceases his intense staring at the perfume. The Captain smiles and reaches out to take it, placing it on the bedside table before lying down beside him. One finger draws invisibly on his chest, and Alastair rests his chin on his shoulder. Any sexual intent has now vanished and Kevin’s deciding whether to sleep, find his book or turn on the TV.

He decides the latter, mostly for the noise and the distraction and lazily flicks through a few channels before finding something in the English language. It’s not clear if it’s a TV series or a film in the first few minutes, but it’s interesting enough to keep from switching onto re-runs of their last few matches. All the while, Alastair never once moves, though he hums as Kevin works his arm between the mattress and his shoulders.

“Thank you,” Alastair eventually says softly and Kevin turns to look at him. He looks so delicate, like it’s what he wanted to say when he first opened it, but could only now allow it – just as Kevin had only just been able to _give_ it. He simply has to twist just to cup that strong jaw and kiss him.

“You’re welcome, Ali.”


	9. Chapter 9

Being alone in his room meant that Kevin is finally able to get all of his work done. Emails have been sent to various people and it’s a relief to have a little less weight on his mind. Not that there’s much to _be_ on his mind. But as he leans on the window sill, bathed in the ochre light of sunset as he watches the bustling city below, Kevin purses his lips and reflects on his solitude. It’s never usually a problem when he decides to leave the others be… but he’s spent so much time with Alastair recently that a room in which there is not the constant, quiet breathing of another, or the rustle of a page turning, or the whisper of bedsheets and sleepy mewls is discomforting.

But he does not yearn for the company of others. Just one. But he is still with his friends. Kevin had let him leave with a pout before it struck him that why _should_ he care? There is no need to be jealous. Alastair has his friends. Alastair isn’t _his_. If it is all a question of ego and wanting the gorgeous Captain desiring no one but him, then let the man play his games, if only so Kevin can prove time and time again why he is the best, just as he loves doing out in the Middle.

There is no need to be jealous because Alastair, Jimmy and Graeme are just friends. A little while ago, Kevin had rationalised that there’s no threat because Jimmy and Graeme are married, but the more he thinks about it the more he starts to see through his self-imposed ignorance and starts to wonder. The pair are close… but surely it’s just too _obvious_. But anyway, they are all friends and Alastair would _surely_ say if it is anything more than that.

Kevin wants to think that anyway. He’d rather not think at all. Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s on the phone to his wife. They spend an hour and a half talking before she has to go and pick Dylan up and Kevin says he should get some rest. He hangs up with a smile and walks over to the window to pull the curtains shut. Too many times he’s forgotten to do it and woken nearly blinded by the sub-continental sunlight he really should be used to by now.

It’s the Captain’s fault, mostly. On the surface it seems like he gets swept up in passion and lust and whisks Kevin off with him, and the room they are in simply vanishes, becoming nothing more than a _place_. Though, sometimes Kevin suspects that leaving the curtains open is some outlet for the exhibitionism Alastair likes to partake in, the _danger_ of maybe being seen. He’s never reckless, just _fun_.

But tonight, Kevin yanks the curtains together and lets his hands slide from them slowly. Alastair will not being joining him. Kevin doesn’t even know why he thinks of such a thing like it’s important. It’s not. He shouldn’t be disappointed. Shouldn’t sulk over it. Yet he does, ambling into the bathroom and the readying for bed; stripping his clothes off like a chore.

Settling in bed, he leaves the lamp on and plugs himself into one of his more quiet playlists. The bed feels odd with the warmth and weight of only one. Kevin sighs and rolls onto his side, staring at the wall. He doesn’t spend every night with Alastair, but more often than not now, his view of the beige-striped wallpaper would be impeded by a tousled mop of black hair, or a smile with sparkling eyes, or maybe a sleeping face that he felt tempted to kiss. On the nights they’re not together, Kevin doesn’t miss Alastair so much. He occasionally thinks what the man could be doing; whether or not Alastair is thinking of him but never and out-right want and _need_ that has him sighing and subconsciously reaching out for the pillow on that side of the bed. It smells like the Captain: subtle musk and fruit shampoo. Soon – if he gets his way – the linen would soak up that new perfume.

With one more sigh, a little more wistful than the last, Kevin replaces _Alastair’s_ pillow and flops back onto his back. He’s not particularly physically tired, just bored and uses the plain-white ceiling to project their last game, to analyse his own performance; reliving each ball and shot to indentify what he had done well and what they could do better.

Sleep creeps in gradually. It’s been a long time coming, he doesn’t move to switch off the lamp or his ipod and risk missing this cycle. He lies back, letting that comfortable blankness wash over him as the air-con breathes cool air over his bare chest.

And the first thing he notices again is that citrus tinge in the air that had been upon Alastair’s skin hours ago. He half wonders – as much as he is able when he feels that all there is to him is wisps of senses and nothing like true reality – if his subconscious is playing games with him. But then the sheets move as he remains still, introducing the cool air to his stomach and legs before a long, slender form moulds perfectly tight to his side. One hand curls around his waist and a kiss is pressed to his sternum.

Lazily, Kevin slides one arm up and pulls his headphone cord to pop the buds from his ears. When he wearily cracks open his eyes, Alastair’s already settled and seems committed to sleep. But he mewls, wriggling like a cat when the South African strokes his hand down his back.

“What’re you doing here?” he mumbles, not even sure if it’s comprehensible but not having much energy and will to try it again.

He feels the Captain’s smile and the long, deep exhale of relaxation. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

Kevin adores Alastair when he says such things. Not specifically that context, but the pure open candidness that he possesses. He loves how Alastair says the things Kevin won’t because he’s not the type to want to betray a weakness.

If he knows that Kevin also was pining for company and came to _him_ for that reason, then Kevin’s thankful for it to a depth he’s too sleepy to really do anything but appreciate right now. He wraps both arms as tight as he can around Alastair, making sure he can’t leave even if he had the intention to. Kevin has spent most of the evening plagued with jealousy, for seemingly no reason. He’ll be damned if he’ll be given that reason now.

\--

Over the next week, something changes in the dressing room. Kevin can’t indentify what exactly, but he can hear whispers that he’s sure he’s not imagining. He knows the feeling well and knows the trouble it’s gotten him into in the past. But he can’t assume they’re about him. With the Australian Tour approaching, nerves always run high and Kevin’s no exception to that. While he usually manages to turn that apprehension into anticipation, the newer additions to the Test squad haven’t mastered that yet.

They’re just whispers; backed up by the sensation of being watched. Not constantly, but when he’s with Alastair. When they’re either side of the changing room and he’s watching the Captain intently, seeing the occasional flash of a bitemark high on a thigh, or when they chat about the game in training, or when they sit on the sofa elbowing each other like children as they play on the Xbox.

He tries to cast that aside as his guilt redoubling its efforts to stop him, or at least slow him, and distract him from monopolising Alastair’s time when he’s not _The England Captain_. It makes sense that the guilt would increase paranoia and why he _swears_ that every time he raises his head, he sees another one or two snap away like they were trying to conceal their stares. Kevin’s never quite quick enough to see who.

Alastair’s been in and out of meetings all day. The only time Kevin had seen him had been at lunch, and even then, he walked in with Andy still talking in his ear. He grabbed his food and was gone immediately. Kevin had spent the day with the others and the team analysist, going through their last Test.

When Kevin sees Andy head off to the hotel’s gym he assumes that means that the meetings are over, and that Alastair is finally free again. And he assumes that like the last few times, the Captain would appreciate some company.

He continues on down the corridor and finds Alastair’s door ajar. The first voice he hears is Alastair’s and it’s raised, but not angry. More simply indignant. Kevin doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he’s curious and stands close to the door with his back against the blue-painted wall. If anyone walks down, he would appear to simply be waiting – he hopes at least.

“Just think about it, okay?” Jimmy’s is the second voice and whilst it’s his usual grumble, there’s some inflection in it that Kevin doesn’t recognise and it makes him frown. It’s kind of like concern.

“And stop it,” that’s Graeme, speaking sternly and Kevin can imagine him pointing a finger in Alastair’s face to exaggerate his point. At least, that’s always how Graeme speaks to him; he’d never heard the Spinner talk to Alastair like this before, like he’s got some authority over his friend.

The door suddenly swings open and Kevin moves out of the way for whoever is leaving to come out. It’s Graeme first, who glowers at him like he expects Kevin has something to say. For once, he doesn’t – not knowing what had been said, yet somehow knowing it concerned him in some way – and gestures for Graeme to pass with an overly-dramatic sweep of his arm.

The bowler does so with a sneer and Jimmy trails behind, glancing at Kevin out of the corner of his eye before shaking his head. Kevin doesn’t bother watching them amble down the corridor, though he feels that if he did, he would hear them mutter between themselves. Maybe he should just confront them and get whatever has been in their system out. They’ve been giving him looks since that day he gave Alastair the perfume.

A sigh from inside the bedroom draws his attention back to Alastair and he catches the door before it slams shut. Inside, Alastair is sat on the end of the bed, rubbing his forehead with his hand before brushing his fringe back.

“What was that about?” the South African asks as he shuts the door behind him.

Alastair startles and looks up with his mouth open for a moment. “Oh,” he says and blinks a few times. “Nothing serious.”

Kevin can’t help but scowl at the blatant lie. That first lie Alastair’s ever told him. That fact unsettles him because it makes that conversation even _more_ serious. When he paces closer with the intention of asking again, Alastair scoffs because he realises what he’s done.

He reaches out for Kevin’s hands and clasps them tightly, drawing him closer as he spreads his legs to accommodate him. “They’re just being jerks. Being nosy and concerned and—it’s   _nothing_ , okay?”

Raising an eyebrow, Kevin inspects Alastair’s face and finds it open. There’s still something swirling in his eyes that is too dark to be able to read but if the Englishman says it’s not important then Kevin chooses to trust him that it’s not. He opens his mouth to speak when Alastair’s fingers desert his in favour of his belt buckle.

“How long since we last did it?”

“Four days?” Kevin replies and watches as Alastair smiles up at him. Whilst he isn’t exactly in the mood for it, having come here to provide company and maybe a spot of dinner, he can’t refuse that face and the want upon it.

\--

The following day he’s alone in his room when there’s a knock on the door. Not the usual pattern of three that he and Alastair have devised so there’s no chance of opening the door to grab shoulders and lunge for a kiss only to discover it was the wrong person. Just an average knock, so Kevin shuts his laptop and walks to the door and finds Swann stood with his arms crossed.

“We need to talk,” is he all he says and Kevin nods, completely agreeing. At last he gets to know what’s going on and it promises to be a relief. At the very least, they can work out what tension has grown between them and if that’s a fight then it’s a fight. They’re grown men and will get over it just like every other time they’d have a disagreement.

Surprisingly, Jimmy isn’t with him and Graeme strides in to stand in the middle of the room. He glances around quickly, and Kevin doesn’t miss how he rolls his eyes when he sees the bottle of lube on the bedside table, and some underwear that isn’t his on the floor in the corner.

“What’s going on between you and Alastair?”

Usually, Kevin appreciates the direct approach, but coming from Graeme it just sounds accusatory and it hits him out of the blue, though he supposes he saw it coming. With the constant looks and how many times he’s knocked on Alastair’s door to find Graeme there or vice versa.

But the question also startles him. What _is_ going on between him an Alastair? He’s been so busy _enjoying_ it that he hasn’t paid it much thought. It’s a friendship… a friendship that encapsulates some really good sex. “We’re screwing. You know that,” he finally replies flippantly, shrugging and appearing to not care less about it all. Graeme would only find the thought of Kevin and Alastair being close friends hilarious.

“And the sleeping together? And the _cuddling_?”

Frowning deeply, Kevin searches that face for some indication of how he _knows_. Would Alastair really have said something? He doesn’t want to believe it because Alastair is the one most determined to keep this a secret – had he not tried to call the thing off before it really started just for that concern for Kevin’s family? He is also the most discreet person he knows. Yet, there is no other way Graeme could know. “It’s a part of the sex…” he mumbles, still confused but not liking the silence in which it feels Swann holds dominance over him.

Graeme readjusts the cross of his arms and tilts his chin upwards. “It stops. Now. The sex, the bloody cuddling, the fucking kisses in the bathroom. It all stops now.”

“Why should we?" Kevin suddenly barks when irritation flares. No, he’s beyond that, hating people interfering with his life. He is questioned and analysed and contradicted enough already to have his teammates start on him. "Why do you give a toss?”Hands balled tightly, he glares across the room to the Spinner whose sharp facial features look even sterner in the light that comes from above and behind him. “None of this concerns you.”

“He’s my _friend_ , you fuckwit. It fucking concerns me.”

Graeme takes one step closer and Kevin regrets standing in a corner. There’s no where for him to go and those eyes are as hard as diamonds. Kevin’s still too confused as to what ground they’re on, and why Graeme is so determined to split them up, to step forwards with his retort and stand his ground. What argument has he got? He likes the sex? He likes Alastair? He’s having fun whilst he’s putting his entire life at risk?

The South African crosses his arms over his chest, jaw clenched tightly. In the back of his head he muses that this is something like two fighting scorpions he saw once. Their postures mirrored, not quite physically equal but their stings were just as deadly. Graeme might be a first class idiot, but Kevin’s always seen him as something as an intellectual equal, both determined and acrid when they need to be.

“Alastair’s a grown man, I’m sure he can decide what he wants. And he wants _me_.”

“You’re not good for him. You’re not good _enough_ for him,” Graeme sneers and looks Kevin up and down like he’s something one of his cats had brought in. And Kevin’s just not used to being told that. He’s had many accusations flung in his face, but never that he’s not _good enough_. It’s hardly a red rag to a bull, but strikes a chord of insecurity that he has to quickly cover with bitter amusement.

“It’s _sex_ , Swann. And it’s plenty 'good enough' for him. You _really_ think he’d keep coming if he doesn’t _love_ it?”

Graeme growls in frustration and pressed his forefingers to his temples. “It’s not just sex, though, is it, you prick? You’re with him _all the time_. Can’t you fucking _see_ —?” he sighs in disgust and shakes his head. His hands fall back to his sides and he looks up at Kevin like he’s given up on whatever point he’s trying to make.

Did he _expect_ anything else? Kevin’s as immovable as a beached whale when he wants to be and nothing Graeme could ever say would convince him to change his mind. Especially when it’s something he enjoys as much as Alastair.

In the moments of silence, Kevin starts to feel the thrum of victory turn his bemusement into derisive smugness. Perhaps Swann’s just jealous. He’s been losing time with his best friend to one of the people he dislikes the most in the dressing room. Perhaps he just doesn’t like the thought of Alastair and Kevin together.

The smugger Kevin looks, the darker Graeme’s eyes become and his lips twist downwards. He stalks closer again, one finger and fist shaking threateningly in his direction as he does so.

“He’s been hurt once, and if you _fucking dare_ hurt him again I will _personally_ rip your balls off and destroy you,”

Kevin doesn’t understand the feeling that takes to him, and why he’s surprised to hear such a threat. Well, not so much the threat, but his supposed capability to hurt Alastair. The feeling of being that important to the Captain – him, over all the others – is so unbelievably pleasant that his mind just runs with it. Like it is some fantasy he harboured but never knew; that he has some form of control over the Captain outside the bedroom… yet it’s more than that. Much more.

He sneers tilting his head up in a gesture of complete disregard for Graeme’s attempt at intimidating him – though he has no doubt that nothing would give the Spinner greater pleasure than crumbling him to pieces. Internally, he wonders what Graeme is even alluding to. A former lover? Alastair doesn’t seem like the type to have such things, but Kevin isn’t arrogant enough to assume he’s the first to capture the Captain’s lusts. He’s just arrogant enough to know he’ll be the last. But, there has been things Alastair’s said; looks he’s had that has always made Kevin wonder if there is some backstory he isn’t privy to.

 “Well, whoever _that_ was, I’m better than him.”

 “You’re _better?_ ” Graeme laughs so sharply it’s like breaking glass and finally closes the distance between them. He’s four inches taller than the bowler but that doesn’t appear to mean a thing. “Better than _Freddie_?”

Kevin hears the door slam shut, but all he sees is the shadow-cast wall opposite him. He’s shocked. Shocked because he has known Freddie for years; they had been good friends yet he never knew the Lancastrian was into guys. Well, not for anything more than sex. Under the influence of alcohol, Freddie would take pleasure from whatever he could, so Kevin had simply assumed Alastair would have gladly kept his bed warm for an hour or two. That’s his basis for not doubting Graeme’s words. That… and it makes sense.

Now it _all_ makes sense.

That night when he was trying to persuade Alastair to continue their affair, the moment he said Flintoff’s name, that’s when the Captain’s malice really showed its head. The look Alastair had given him, though he barely remembers it due to the haze of lust that followed, had been one of unadulterated hate, but the kind of hate that is a mask for something a lot darker and more painful.

Kevin can’t believe it even though the evidence is irrefutable. Around the time of Freddie’s departure Alastair had changed from his usual amiable, laid back self, becoming tetchy and reclusive. He had shrunk into the company of Jimmy and Graeme – somewhere Kevin was less than willing to venture, so he had simply let things be and continued on without a care.

Alastair was in love with Andrew Flintoff, and even years afterwards, is obviously still feeling it.

Alastair was in love with Andrew Flintoff… how the hell could Kevin measure up to that?

The hero of English Cricket. More recognisable than even the greats of the 80s. Freddie was everything Kevin wanted to be when he was just starting out in the team, successful and well-liked. He could have a good time (perhaps too good a time, even Kevin thought occasionally) yet he could get away with it. The Media would just brush it off with a ‘there goes Freddie again!’.

Over time, Kevin began to accept he would never have that shine of his and never have the love of the Press. It doesn’t bother him now, not with his own, hard-earned, well-deserved success.

But Alastair was _in love_ with Andrew Flintoff.

The more he says it to himself, it still doesn’t ease away the shock. He starts to think that yes, of course Alastair was attracted to him, just like everyone else. Swept up in the hype and Freddie’s magnetic charisma. He can’t be bitter, for he had too in his youth, just in that different way. Kevin wanted to be him, Alastair wanted to be with him. Acceptable. Normal.

Impossible for Kevin to compete.

He thinks himself safe.

If Alastair loved Freddie than Alastair couldn’t love him.

But then he remembers that night when he had asked the Englishman why he hadn’t approached him concerning sex and his attraction before. And how Alastair had been desperate to leave the moment Kevin teased that maybe Alastair would fall in love with him. Kevin frowns, chewing on his tongue and slumps against the chest of drawers beside him. Why did Alastair feel so threatened by that thought? Unless it was a real risk. A risk so great that he held back whatever he felt for Kevin until he simply couldn’t anymore.

Is Alastair truly at a risk of falling for him? Graeme and Jimmy surely think so. And Kevin thinks he knows the Spinner well enough to tell that Graeme believes Alastair already has. That’s what yesterday’s conversation had been about, surely. And why Alastair had so hungrily and determinedly sucked him and demanded to be fucked with the same fierce lust it had been before. Before the passion set in and made the sex different. _Intimate_. Alastair was reaffirming that they were just sex. Or at least tried to. They’d fallen back to the mattress and kissed, and kissed until Alastair had said he needed to shower, and that Kevin should go back to his room because he had some work to do that night. Yet the Captain looked so reluctant as he said it.

He cards one hand through his hair and sighs. He has been so blind. He should have seen this coming the moment he woke up that first morning to find Cook still in bed with him, twisted around him with that contented little smile. Kevin should have said something. He should’ve kicked him out and said it was _over_ because it was too much. This is the danger he never anticipated with Alastair’s adamant statements that it is always and only sex with guys. Now it’s come back and blindsided him.

Alastair was in love with Andrew Flintoff… and now…

Alastair might be in love with him.


	10. Chapter 10

Alastair certainly doesn’t act like he’s in love with Kevin. There’s no change in his behaviour and the time they spend together isn’t awkward. Kevin thinks that it’s just a stupid idea Graeme put in his head. Perhaps to scare him away, and it probably would have worked if Alastair wasn’t experienced in ignoring everything the Spinner said.  Even when Kevin had said that Graeme had come to see him, Alastair just dismissively waved his hand to silence him.

“He’s being a jerk. A nosy jerk. Take no notice of him.”

It’s hard to though, when they still spend their nights together and spend time they could have been with their other friends just kissing. Kevin tries. He really tries to put Swann’s words from his mind. He tries to not see Jimmy’s dark-eyed glowers. If they had never have said anything, he would never have doubted.

He’s not stupid. Kevin’s been in love before. He _is_ in love with his wife, so he knows what to look out for. Alastair isn’t anything like Jessica was when they were courting. He acts like Alastair always has, cheeky and dry-humoured, flirtatious and authoritative in fitting circumstances. All that has changed between them is the introduction of sex, and the subsequent deepening of their friendship.

He’s not going to lose that friendship just because Graeme wants him to. Why should he?

The sex they have is just like every other time. Every time, Kevin relishes pushing into that tight, hot body, reflecting on its perfection simply because it _is_. He enjoys the sex. He enjoys Alastair’s company. He enjoys the way Alastair’s back curls to him, arching so gracefully as he comes and how he so _hungrily_ milks Kevin for all he has to give.

The South African enjoys how even a 10-minute tryst is as satisfying as the times they string it out over an evening. He enjoys how Alastair buries his face into the pillow, his hair a mess and his neck far too inviting for Kevin to resist.

He lazily presses his lips to the first visible vertebrae of his spine. He enjoys what they have and he is determined not to ruin it because Graeme’s inspired paranoia. It doesn’t affect Alastair in the slightest.

Kevin doesn’t think about what he murmurs into the Captain’s skin. The words just spill out. He says he’s beautiful, he’s amazing, and how good it feels with his muscles still throbbing around his cock. He says how he’d like to go another round before he chastises himself and nuzzles into the short black hair that feathers against Alastair’s neck.

Kevin pulls out gently, stroking the man’s waist as he does so before settling back down on him. Alastair’s head is turned, and if he doesn’t want Kevin lounging on his back like a lazy cat then he has plenty enough strength to push him off. But he doesn’t, and vacantly, Kevin wonders why as he continues to kiss. Perhaps because of his warmth. Perhaps it’s got something to do with Alastair’s love of submission, and what’s more feral than a position like this? Perhaps it’s because—

“You better not be falling in love with me,” Alastair’s voice rumbles out. Kevin looks up from where he had rested his head against the man’s shoulder blades and finds his face so very similar to something he hadn’t seen since long ago; way back when he first asked Alastair why he wasn’t willing to blow him.

Just like then, Kevin still doesn’t understand it, and he doesn’t spare the time to try to analyse it. Because he’s stunned again. Frozen and frantic, because for all of the thoughts of Alastair being in love with him, he has never once looked in the mirror. He’s doing all the things he’s only done with his wife before. And that revelation terrifies him.

But to jump away now would reveal that, surely. Kevin’s no coward and he doesn’t want to recoil. Because he’s not even sure _what_ he’s really feeling. His mind is hazy from the sex and he’s tired from a day of training.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Chef,” he sneers into Alastair’s shoulder to fill a criminal silence. Perhaps if he can convince the Captain then he can convince himself. Perhaps all this time, Alastair’s been thinking exactly the same as him, poisoned by his friends’ concerns, and in his honesty, had come out with that Kevin wouldn’t.

Alastair grunts and rolls his shoulders. Kevin understands and slides to his side before rolling onto his back. The Captain’s presence is crushing and it feels like it’s weighing entirely down upon his chest. It’s not love. He’s in love with his wife. Kevin can’t love him. Alastair is in love with his wife. Alastair was in love with Freddie. Still _hung up_ on Freddie. Kevin is nothing like Freddie. Alastair can’t love him.

“We’re just friends.”

The Captain hums quietly and turns his head to face him. Kevin doesn’t glance at him because he’s too busy in his own world, his own mind to fuss over someone elses’.

“Friends have sex, right? It happens. They care about each other and have fun together as friends, but they fuck, right? And it’s great. _It happens_ ,” he talks like he’s talking to himself; trying to convince himself and somehow it’s working.

“It happens, yeah.”

He finally turns his head and sees a little smile on Alastair’s lips. His eyes are still a little turbulent, but that smile is something he can cling to. They’re friends. Nothing more.

_They’re friends._

\--

“Maybe we should… spend some time apart,” Kevin says the following morning when Alastair wakes. He had woken half an hour earlier to Alastair practically wrapped around him, arms and legs and lips so possessive in his unconscious state. It was so pleasant, so _comfortable_ that Kevin has never been more _uncomfortable_.

And he had spent all that time until the Englishman stirred reminding himself that they are just friends. And he cursed Graeme to hell for what he’s done. He has _ruined_ what Kevin’s been enjoying.

They were fine in their ignorance. Happy. And now everything’s awkward and odd because every time Alastair’s face contorted as he dreamed, all Kevin wanted to do was stroke a hand through his hair and kiss him.

So he had decided that time apart is the best option. At least until this idiotic paranoia dies down, and they come to realise that it truly is just an illusion and their imaginations. Maybe all they need is some time with their families to remember what _love_ actually is. It’s not sitting down watching films, kissing when scenes get boring and spending nights under damp sheets. Love is a need to spend the rest of their lives together; wanting to raise children together and what he had pledged to Jessica alone on their wedding day.

“Yeah,” Alastair responds as he slides from bed and pulls on his shirt. It’s different from every other morning where they would either lounge around for a few minutes or Alastair would be up and in the bathroom. This is more like it was at the start: coming, recuperating and then dressing to leave. Alastair is eager to leave, and Kevin quashes the sudden sourness on his tongue.

To his credit, Alastair sounds genuinely amiable when he leaves, though he doesn’t look or smile at Kevin like he always had. Even at the start, there would be some flirtatious wink that made the man think maybe if he followed the Captain back to his room there would be a second round in it for him. Now it’s like Alastair would be happy not to see him again despite his cheery “See you later,”

When he’s alone again, Kevin throws himself back into the pillows and sighs. The silence is a relief. He feels like he’s just laid down on his first sunbed on holiday after a long and challenging tour.

As the day goes on, that feeling continues. He spends time with Jonathan and Matt, and they make no remarks on his former neglect of them. They talk about all the menial things Kevin’s missed and in the brief minutes he spends in the bathroom, he thinks what he can say to Alastair at the end of the day when they talk before bed, but then he remembers that won’t be happening again. He sighs as he washes his hands and supposes it’s just a habit. He’ll get over it soon enough.

Alastair is nowhere to be seen the entire day. Kevin doesn’t assume he’s avoiding him, though a part of him wants the Englishman to be. He knows Alastair’s back in meetings and making schedules and assessing selections, but he likes the thought of Alastair sat alone in his room, mulling over things; thinking how they could go back to being friends without this awkwardness. Or missing him in a way Kevin won’t allow himself to.

Sometimes Kevin _does_ find himself consciously missing him and he has to get up and do something else. It’s laughable how much it’s like it was at the very beginning. He distracts himself with his friends and dreads going back to his room at the end of the day because there would be nothing to stop him and his mind from wandering. Nothing to stop him walking up the corridor to Alastair.

It’s just a habit. He’ll get over it soon enough.

As expected, the night is by far the hardest part. He had played around on his laptop and listened to music until he knew he has to sleep. Laying in the bed that still smells of the Captain, Kevin feels trapped and choking. Half asleep or maybe just lonely, he can imagine Alastair here, firm and warm and close and he slides his arm across the mattress to find nothing and it’s supposed to be comforting – feel right – but Kevin only groans and turns to his other side to face the open window.

It’s just a habit. He’ll get over it soon enough.

He hopes.

Training is fine. Being around Alastair again is fine. They’re both mature enough to continue acting as normal friends. Nothing really changes apart from they don’t follow each other into empty rooms or bathrooms. Alastair still laughs at Kevin’s humour and it makes him smile back. He loves the way Alastair laughs, and misses the way he would do in private. He misses the way sometimes Alastair would roll onto his front, his shoulders still shaking, and just look at him like he is the centre of his world.

He tries not to think of that because that’s more than friendship, more than they _are_. The desire to make him laugh is one thing, but the desire to make him happy is another. After that, Kevin stays away from Alastair and decides not to notice the forlorn looks he receives from across the dressing room. It gets easy after a few days, because Alastair stops trying to get his attention.

Kevin starts to think himself completely stupid. He has rationalised that he’s just confused; that he and Alastair are just friends reading too deeply between the lines, tricked by Graeme because they’ve been on tour and away from their families for too long. Despite this, he avoids Alastair like he really is in love with him and like this is so much more than the paranoia it is. He thinks of how confused the Captain must be, and if he is aware of what’s happening and whether or not he thinks Kevin’s in love with him because of his behaviour. Kevin thinks maybe they should talk, to clear things up but he never knows what to say. Expressing himself is hardly a skill he’s mastered.

When he’s back at the hotel and alone in his room one evening, Kevin starts to feel the niggle deep within like he feels on holiday to get back to his sport. It comes suddenly, like an itch that cannot be ignored. When he misses the weight of his bat in his hand; the snug fit of his padding and gear, the roar of the crowd and the constant demand to be better… He finds himself craving that weight of Alastair in his arms; the way they slept so closely together, or the way Alastair would constantly fit to whatever position Kevin pushed and pulled him into. He craves the sounds he would make in his ears; the things he would say, the calling and the moans and Kevin misses the need to please him and he’s never felt quite so alone, just as he feels so useless sitting on a beach and not scoring runs for his country.

That silence that had once been so refreshing now feels like a death sentence. It’s tighter than a noose and as dark and suffocating as a bag over his head. No measure of distraction will save him from this twist to his mind. He _knows_ his own yearning and insatiable nature. There’s only one cure, just like his absolute need to have sex with Alastair at the start of this tour. They have to talk. Talk this though.  Talk is over. Talk it out.


	11. Chapter 11

Alastair’s room is at the far end of the corridor. It’s what he had requested when they checked in two days ago and it was fine at the time. Kevin didn’t even have to agree, but was thankful for that loss of temptation. If he was made to sleep in a room just _knowing_ that the Captain was next door, only a wall away, near naked and hopefully just as fitful in his sleep as Kevin was, then he would never have managed to stay away despite his better judgement. At least, that’s how he feels now.

The corridor now, with its opulent dark woodwork and oriental orchids on plinths every 6 feet, is more like an obstacle course. Nearly everyone’s doors are open, and his teammates wander between them. Kevin has no shame in being seen going to Alastair – they’re just going to _talk_ – but he doesn’t trust his teammates not to jump to the wrong conclusion and run their mouths. Graeme and Jimmy would hear and inevitably intervene. Not that they possibly _could_ cause more trouble than they already have.

There’s no way of avoiding it though. He waits for a few minutes and the traffic seems to die down a little. He doesn’t even know why, but as he leaves his room, he adjusts his shirt from any bunching and smoothes his hair.

Long legs take him quickly down the corridor, hopefully slow enough to be inconspicuous, but fast enough to allude interruption. Two doors away from Alastair’s room, Kevin thinks he’s done it. His fingers curl, preparing to knock, and he thinks should he smile or not?

One door away, a voice calls out. It’s Jonathan and it’s his name. Gritting his teeth, Kevin continues like he hadn’t heard. It’s plausible, considering how often he walks around, needing to keep active, with his headphones in. Then he hears a flurry of movement and both Jonathan and Ian wander out, pretending to be casual. But Kevin knows what urgency looks like in Jonathan’s eyes and he sees it now.

So they’ve been recruited by the Chuckle Brothers as well. Kevin’s turns to them, intending to make what he has to say very brief and to the point. Be damned if it’s rude. He refuses to let his life be a game for other people. And if this affair with Alastair makes him happy, then he won’t let people get in the way of that too.

“How are you for a couple games of FIFA?” his fellow South African grins, but he is a truly awful liar. Kevin sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he looks, Ian’s slipped his way between Kevin and Alastair’s door. He can feel his tempter fraying and takes a deep breath. His parents raised him to be polite…

“Sorry guys, but—”

“C’mon, KP, how often does Belly play with us?”

“It’ll be fun,” the redhead pipes up, himself offering a smile though his arms cross over his chest.

He sighs. He knows his friends. They’re going to be belligerent. Because they’ve been told the wrong thing. He is just going to talk to Alastair. Clear the air. Nothing will happen between them, and even if it does, it’s no one’s business but theirs.

“Maybe later? I’ve just got to sort something out with Cooky, then we can—” when he reaches for the handle of the door – as Alastair almost _always_ has it unlocked – Ian leans to his left and blocks his hand. “Please don’t, Ian.”

The batsman might be a good 6 inches shorter than him, but he’s stocky and tight-lipped, and seems determined to make a barrier of himself. “Just a couple games, Kev.”

“You can talk to Cooky afterwards—”

“I want to talk to him _now_ ,” Kevin bites and doesn’t really acknowledge that he sounds petulant. He’s in the mood for whatever needs to be addressed and whilst he knows that his mind won’t change over a session of video gaming, he doesn’t want to run that risk. And also there would be another excuse to keep them apart afterwards, no doubt.

“I said I’d join you and I mean it,” he continues, gritting his teeth and bustles Ian out of the way. He twists the door handle and it’s locked. But he can see the light on inside. Alastair is not the sort to waste electricity even if he’s not paying for it. He frowns and tries again like he was mistaken the first time.

“He’s busy,” Ian says quietly from his side yet so flatly that Kevin turns to him, knowing that he knows more than he’s saying. And Kevin doesn’t know what that could be. Even his face is more of less expressionless.

And in the silence that follows Kevin hears it. It feels like an eternity, like Bell and Trott have petrified, leaving Kevin alone in a world where all he can hear is the movement of a rhythm the other side of that door. A familiar rhythm and a familiar voice moaning out those sounds he loves to have breathing hot and moist against his ear. There’s another voice he hears, but not one he recognises immediately, and he doesn’t give himself enough time to try and identify it either.

His hand drops heavily back to his side and he steps back. Back into that world where his unseen teammates are laughing and Ian and Jonathan are staring at him, suddenly very confused. They’ve probably never seen him _deflated_ before. And that’s exactly how Kevin feels. He’s been craving Alastair’s company, secretly fantasising the Captain missing him, only to find he’s been replaced.

This isn’t even like when he caught Alastair and Eoin together. There’s no drive to reclaim or dominate or assert himself, but a hurt that settles deep in his gut and festers. He can’t be replaced… it’s not a matter of pride, but insecurity. Who had Alastair deemed better than him? Why had he chosen to do this? If it is about the sex then Kevin is just down the corridor… they are friends and whilst they agreed to a little distance, Kevin never thought they’d called the affair off completely.

Had _he_ done this? In isolating Alastair almost completely, he had given the Captain the impression he wasn’t interested at all anymore? Kevin blinks slowly and chews his bottom lip. It’s the only reason he can fathom. He had driven Alastair away.

Taking another step back, he turns on his heel and paces back down the corridor. Both Jonathan and Ian call after him, but do not follow him. And even if they do, when Kevin reaches him room, he slips in quickly and clicks the lock behind him.

He and Alastair are friends enjoying casual sex. There was never any agreement that they are _exclusive_. Why should he care so much about it now? Kevin made his jokes about wanting to be the only one Alastair desires because that’s just the person he is. He wants to be the best and the focus of the attention. It felt good being the one Alastair kept coming to. It felt good waking up to the Captain nestled beside him; knowing that he was nowhere else and had no want to be with anyone else.

He has to know who it is with Alastair in there… who fancies themself better than him, and who is happy to show complete disregard for his emotions.

He cannot blame Alastair for this. It’s in his nature. No friends-with-benefits arrangement will change that. Had he not been so cold to Alastair, then the man would’ve knocked on his door; come in smelling of everything Kevin wants to savour and they’d end the night satisfied and replete.

The blame is Kevin’s – he’s not so arrogant as to deny it – and whoever it is with the Captain. If everyone knows, courtesy of Swann and Anderson, about him and Alastair then they should respect that. Whoever it is should have said _no_ , _what about Kevin_?

Not even understanding that burning need for a face and a name, Kevin stalks out of his room and back up the corridor. He avoids going near Alastair’s room because he doesn’t want to rekindle that turbulence in his stomach. He doesn’t _want_ to imagine that perfect form wrapped around another body, and someone else seeing that beautiful face and enjoying those sweetly ravenous kisses he gives.

In every room he passes, he ducks in and counts heads. Swann and Anderson are in Bresnan’s room, teasing the All-Rounder as they play, and either don’t notice him or simply don’t acknowledge him. In the final room, Jonathan, Ian and Matt are muttering to each other but shut up and look up when Kevin pokes his head around the doorframe. He knows he’s glowering, probably looking like he’s fit for murder, and sneers at their wide eyes before turning back towards his room.

Three men missing.

Stuart, Steven and Joe.

Stuart’s door is locked and the lights are off. There’s no noise from inside. Steven’s door is open, and Eoin and Jos are sat on the floor eating whilst they watch a DVD. Joe’s room is the same as Broad’s.

Kevin returns to his room and throws himself back onto his bed like a sulking child. Three men. Attractive – if he’s pushed – skilful and talented men. Not exactly possessing those traits Alastair confessed to loving – hardly capable of the dominance and charisma of himself or Flintoff – but enough to satisfy, perhaps. Alastair must have been desperate, and Kevin had driven him to a sub-par release. But which of the three would not only appeal to the Captain the most, but show that disregard of him?

He’d think Stuart the most likely. The blonde is confident, intelligent, and ambitious. Whilst Kevin doesn’t assume in any shape or form that he knows about such things, the bowler has that similar sort of manner to Alastair that suggests to him that he can play on either side of the fence in whatever position. Joe is similar in quality, though more that cheeky, playful nature that Freddie displayed at times. Steven is smart, determined and athletic but gentle, maybe too much so, but maybe Alastair is looking for something _different_.

He racks his brain, thinking back to anything he had seen over the last few days. Any clues he could have witnessed but missed, but there’s nothing. And neither should there be. He’s the only one Alastair’s ever been less than discreet with. He starts to wonder why. Why it seems he is the only one Alastair is happy to be around almost constantly. Why he treats him as more than a friend…

Kevin thinks back to what he thought that night when Graeme had come to him; told him about Cook and Flintoff. Even in hindsight, and the belief that they were just friends, nothing makes sense of everything more than Alastair falling in love with him. But _is_ he? The answer might be easier to find if only he had paid more attention back when Freddie was in the squad. Then he would know what _Alastair in love_ is really like. Because he’s searching in the dark here… and he’s experienced this before. He just doesn’t want to admit it to himself.


	12. Chapter 12

With the Australia Tour just around the corner, Kevin knows this is the time for the team to be pulling together; not for him to be pulling away. He’s not entirely reclusive, still spending hours in the team room, but never being truly social. He’s not clambering to be the centre of attention in training; not being the first to congratulate successes but still offering his help and opinion. It’s not so much of a change that anyone really notices. Or perhaps they know. Perhaps they see his studying stares and do not react because they feel like they have nothing to hide.

Only Alastair is more weary around him. Over the week since Kevin had heard him and _whoever_ , the South African has caught his glances and the sheepish looks. He thinks the Captain knows; that Bell and Trott had reported back and Graeme and Jimmy had told him. But told him what? That Kevin had been _desperate_ to talk to him? That he had been saddened upon hearing what he did?

It hasn’t changed anything. Kevin is still as determined to find out who that person had been. He had not anticipated it being such a struggle though. Alastair is truly clandestine in his actions. Sometimes it’s easy to see how Kevin could’ve played with him so long and have no clue of what happened behind closed doors. Yet, it’s still all the more disconcerting to know that _they_ were completely different together.

But he continues watching, waiting, with the patience of a viper. Alastair is not so perfect or sneaky or clever that he never makes mistakes. More than likely, _whoever_ would slip up; say something or approach him, look at him in some way that Kevin would know and recognise from the early days when sex was simply sex.

He watches as Alastair stands from the sofa across the room to head to bed. Those remaining mumble a good night to which the Captain just waves his hand. No one follows him immediately, or in the next ten minutes. Kevin keeps one eye and ear open but turns back to his laptop and the work he has to do.

He’s sat in a dark corner, behind the projector that still occupies the youngsters. Eoin’s loud and rowdy when he plays, and whilst he tends to be amusing to watch, Kevin is too irritable and can’t focus on his task at hand. So he plugs in his headphones and finds a recording of a recent Test of the Australians to work out their game.

About half an hour in, he glances above the screen and finds the room nearly empty. The projector is off. Eoin, Jos, Joe and Ravi have all vanished. The lamp in the far corner casts a soft light down on Stuart and Steven who remain sat on the sofa they’ve occupied since Kevin first walked in. They appear to be talking, Finn laughing and Stuart scratches the stubble around his jaw as he smiles.

The South African purses his lips, observing them in silence. He pauses the recording and listens through his headphones. Their voices are muted, but still understandable.

“—as thinking when we get to Perth, we could go out somewhere?”

“Like what?” Steve asks and folds his legs up under him with surprising ease despite their length.

“Like… dinner? Like… some place nice and quiet and I can feed you a couple glasses of merlot…”

“So, you want to take advantage of me?”

Kevin frowns, wondering if the handicapped hearing has lead to his mind imagining their tones… or if the pair are really _flirting_.

“Oh, absolutely,” Stuart turns, his hand raising to curl around Steven’s neck and then up into his chestnut hair and pulls him down into a kiss. Not just a flirty, quick kiss, but one Steven moves towards, shuffling to straddle Stuart’s lap and drape his arms around the blonde’s shoulders.

He’s shocked, absolutely so. He doesn’t stare, but watch with an abstract amazement, somewhat similar to watching a romantic film. Stuart’s hands roam as they kiss, but they’re always respectful. Thinking back, Kevin, again, wonders how he’s been so blind. Hindsight is a fantastic thing in which he remembers Steven always at Stuart’s side. Sometimes they would come down to breakfast together and sometimes they would leave dinner together. Steven often sits on Stuart’s lap, or Stuart rests his head upon Steven’s and Kevin had thought that _platonic_. No, when he watches them now, and how gentle Stuart’s hands are and how Steven smiles between kisses, Kevin can’t believe how much of an idiot he is.

As he watches Stuart’s long fingers curling around Finn’s waist and into his hair he remembers what it is to hold Alastair like that. The firmness unlike anything he’s ever felt, and the hair just the right length to twist his fingers into. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists. Steven is similarly impish to the Captain, teasing kisses and pulling away to whisper things he can’t hear into the blonde’s ear. And how Kevin would grin, tilting his head just enough to press his mouth to that sensitive bare skin he’d found makea Alastair keen and shiver.

He had had this… And he had squandered it all in his stupidity.

“ _Hmm_ , I do love you,” Stuart hums and rolls his head back into the sofa, beaming up at his taller, positively glowing, lover.

A lump forms thick and heavy in Kevin’s throat that almost makes him choke. It tastes, sour, like jealousy and he cannot immediately fathom why. And he doesn’t _want_ to. Yanking the cord out of his laptop, resolving to collect the charger later, he stands and makes to leave hastily.

Broad gasps his name in surprise, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He rushes back to his room, slams the door, pacing the length of it as he runs both hands over his hair repeatedly. Anything to keep them busy. Anything to not miss touching Alastair. Just watching the young seamers brings everything back; more than just the sensations, but the _feelings_. That lazy content that settled deep and comfortable as they lay in bed, bare skin to bare skin and kissing. And how Alastair would chuckle at something he’d say and nestle into the pillow. They would fall asleep together and wake up entwined.

No doubt Stuart and Steven do that every night, every morning. But he had pushed Alastair away. And now Alastair has found someone else… it might not be the same as what they had had, but it was not Kevin in his bed now.

And then he remembers. His three suspects for _that_ person. Joe, Stuart and Steven… if the latter pair are as deeply in love as it seems then it couldn’t have been either one. Broad’s door had been shut and locked and the lights off. They could’ve been sleeping. Together. But Joe, he was no where to be seen. No trace in any room and he is simply not the type to go to bed when there’s still games to be played.

It’s Joe. It has to be. He stops his pacing and flings himself down on the bed. It’s been a week and his anger has subsided. But it still remains. He had been wronged, and he wants to know why. He wants to know if his suspicions are true and whether Joe regrets his decision, _knowing_ that he and Alastair had had something _different_. At the very least, he wants an apology.

Without truly thinking it through, Kevin hauls himself to his feet, throws the door open and stalks down the corridor. The question _why_ just reverberates again and again in his head and like an echo, _what if they were together again_. Each time it hisses at him, he clenches his teeth, absolutely hating how the very thought has that distressed nausea creep across his stomach like an oil slick. He doesn’t have an answer for it though. And thankfully he doesn’t find one.

The light inside Joe’s room, just four doors down from his own, is on and he can hear running water and the TV. No voices though. Joe’s the type to always talk when he’s got company so Kevin thinks he’s right in assuming the blonde is alone. He knocks on the door like it’s a police raid and stands back, not caring what severe expression has taken to his face. He’s not here to talk cover drives and off-spin.

Joe opens the door wearily – probably just from the manner of the knock – and peers out through the six inch gap. “Oh, evening KP,” he smiles and opens it further. He’s shirtless and his hair is a mess.

It could mean nothing. He could just be getting ready for bed. Kevin takes a deep breath through his nose and licks his lips, “A word?”

“Okay?” the Yorkshireman frowns and steps back. His confusion is evident but there’s still an air of familiarity between them that right now, Kevin does not reciprocate. He remembers the times they’re shared a joke whilst training, and how he often mocks him for his youthful looks and how Joe always has some comeback.

Kevin walks in and immediately sees the state the bed is in. The duvet is skewed, the sheet creased and distorted. It doesn’t have to mean anything… he breathes deeply again and notices a taint to the air he hasn’t smelt in so long. Of sex. Of musk and fruit shampoo. He could just be imagining it. Being paranoid as he has been for so long. Looking for excuses… looking for a reason to release that anger the nibbles away at him.

He doesn’t really mean to, but he glances around the room for something he prays he won’t find. Joe’s clothes are always thrown around and left lying on the floor so he can’t tell what’s recent, but he also doesn’t find any garments he recognises. He’s about to breathe a quiet sigh of relief when he spots two used condoms in the bin.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, but it means enough.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Joe scowls, taken aback and ruffles his hair. “Um, ‘cuse me?”

“Alastair,” Kevin spits like it’s an accusation on its own. He tries not to let his imagination run wild, but he can see it, made all the more vivid because he can _smell_ the man’s been here recently. He can see that lean, flawless body on those white sheets, writhing and moaning and keening, lost to a pleasure that Kevin isn’t the one providing. “You’ve been with Alastair.”

The blonde continues scowling, probably wondering how Kevin knew. Maybe even wondering why he cared. Perhaps he is ignorant in all of this, spared Swann and Anderson’s misinterpretations. But ignorance is no defence in law and it is no defence to him. “What?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?!” Kevin roughly jerks his hand out in a gesture to the waste bin. “It’s a yes or no answer, Joe.”

“Yeah, I shagged him,” he finally comes out with. Confusion turns to nonchalance and then he smirks. He might have the face of a teenager, but the way he leans against the wall reminds Kevin of himself, young and cocky and right even when he’s wrong. The South African doesn’t quite understand the sudden confidence, but assumes it’s simply something to do with playing an equal, posturing like an errant pup, or a misplaced sense of dominance just because Alastair allows it. “It’s not a crime, is it?”

Kevin stretches his fingers out and consciously keeps them that way, weary of what may come over him if he clenches them. He is used to not letting himself be provoked. Years of playing against Australians and his own former-countrymen have allowed him to train it into a fine art. But seeing Joe look at him with such dispassion is much worse than a conceited pace bowler getting into his face.

“He and I…” Kevin starts, his tone bitter, but he cuts himself off, not knowing where he is going. Well, he knows _one_ place he was going but he is far from willing to share anything like that with Joe. Especially with Joe. He turns his head, not ashamed of what he has to say but finding it so difficult he can’t bring himself to say it whilst looking at the other man. “You _know_ that we were—”

“Yeah,” thankfully Joe interjects before Kevin can say a word that he doesn’t want to. He and Alastair were together in every sense but being together. They were _something_ , more than friends but not quite lovers, he’ll admit that now. “I knew.”

Kevin glances at him sharply. There’s not a shred of remorse in him. He’s still leaning against the wall, arms across his pale chest. His blue eyes are clear and bright, sparkling with bravado.

“But he comes to me. He _wants_  me to fuck him.”

Pursing his lips, Kevin only blinks slowly. Despite him suspecting it, thinking it from the start, it still hurts to hear that confirmation that Alastair had been needing and wanting, feeling that he was not able to come to him for that release.

“And I thought ‘hey, why the hell not?’ Figured your loss is my gain.”

That strikes a nerve. It strikes a raw nerve because Kevin knows it _is_ his loss. A loss he conceded by himself. But the tone Joe uttered it in was so insensitive and thoughtless and callous that the nerve flares violently into hate. He takes a step forwards, lips twisted downwards. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What?” Joe chuckles and stands back up. His arms remain crossed but the set of his eyes changes. He’s half Kevin’s size and he knows it, but still reluctant to let it show. “Am I supposed to apologise for doing what he wants?”

Truly, Kevin doesn’t even know why he’s here anymore. He’s wasting his time. He had come for confirmation, which he had gotten. He had come for an apology that is not going to be given. The cockiness that comes with youth… Joe is much too young to understand the deep and confusing emotions that possess him and the Captain. Still that age where it’s trendy to sleep around and not taking a moment to look at the damage left behind. In his eyes, he’s done nothing wrong. Kevin probably never entered his thoughts… Alastair had probably not even mentioned him either, as if being shunned had hurt him.

This is pointless. He sighs in disdain and stomps across the room to the door. Joe just moves slightly, pressing his back fully to the wall to make room for him to pass. Kevin hears him sneer and has to consciously tell himself not to stop; to keep walking and put one hand upon the door handle.

“I suppose it’s just like you really. Feeling entitled to whatever you want,” Joe says nonchalantly. Kevin twists his fingers around the cool brass. It’s taking everything he has to do what he knows he should. He can turn and snap, get violent in a way he never usually would, but it would get him sent back to England and reprimanded and he would lose out on the Australia Tour… lose out on Alastair. “Always want something when it’s someone else’s.”

He reels on the blonde, his right hand pointing viciously in his face and voice raised until it’s like a rumble in his own ears. “Alastair is _not_ yours.”

The outburst surprises Joe enough that his arms slide down to his sides and eyes wide, he backs off a little. So very different to Alastair who had stood his ground until he was fighting a losing battle internally, or Graeme who had only stepped up to him. “I—I didn—”

“You stay away from him. Even if he _wants_ you to, you do not touch him. Do you understand me?” Kevin continues in that louder tone, using his physical, imposing presence to assert himself over the young batsman because it seems it’s the only thing he’ll understand. And it’s exactly what Kevin’s instincts demand. He’s been dominant with the Captain for so long now, he almost forgets that this is not the time and the place.

The fact that Joe doesn’t completely understand what’s going on is plain to see in his blue eyes. He nods jerkily, silently. More out of a simple wish and need to escape the moment than any true agreement. Kevin sneers, dropping his hand back to his side and turning back to the door.

He pulls it open, immediately meeting Alastair on the other side. The Captain’s lips are pulled down sharply, his eyebrows deeply furrowed. He’s neatly arranged like he hadn’t been in with Joe only a little while ago: fresh clothes like those he wore to bed and his hair pushed back away from his face.

It feels like a forever since Kevin’s been so close. He’s busy taking in the sight of the man when those lips move to a harsh question.

“What are you doing?”

Making excuses is the answer, but not one Kevin’s going to admit. The only true quarrel he has is with himself and his stubbornness and stupidity. He turns, intending to walk back to his room as quickly as possible. If his shouting had attracted Alastair’s attention then the others would no doubt be venturing out to spectate soon. And words are burning on Kevin’s tongue. They clamour to be spoken and heard and they do not need an audience.

“We need to talk,” is all the South African says and he says it stiffly.

Alastair hesitates and when Kevin looks back over his shoulder, he sees the man scratching his jaw like he’s contemplating the request. Then he sighs and quickly falls two paces behind him back down the corridor.

They hadn’t been in a room together in anger for quite some time. Almost the same circumstances, if Kevin disregards a few factors – namely it being his fault for Alastair’s promiscuity rather than simple habits. He invites the Englishman to sit with a gesture of his hand to the chair against the wall after he lowers the bag upon it to the floor.

Alastair settles wearily, watching like a cat as Kevin perches on the end of the bed. For the first time in a long time, he’s self-conscious about the state of his room. He’s never been the neatest of people, whilst Alastair is, and he stares at the mess of clothes in the corner. It serves as a distraction as well, excusing his discomfort as anything but the truth that he’s too scared to admit to Alastair – that he’s been driven mad by jealousy.

“Why were you shouting at Joe?” the Englishman asks with the patience of the captain that he is. Like this is some dressing room disagreement and matter than anything else. And so it should be, with how he’s been acting, how is Alastair to know the feeling behind it all?

“You… didn’t hear?”

“I heard shouting. I heard _you_. I think I have some vague idea what it was about,” there’s a strange look in Alastair’s eyes. Half of irritation and half of excitement, if he’s not mistaken. But then he blinks and the latter is gone, replaced only by cool dispassion.

Kevin pauses, rubs his hand over his face as he decides what way to address this. He can shirk the blame; blame Joe and that cockiness entirely. It’s untrue and easy, but then lies always are. Who knows how Alastair will react to it. And not being honest had landed them all in this mess.

“I don’t like it. What you’re doing with him—” he watches Alastair sigh and roll his eyes like he had been hoping for some better excuse. “I don’t _want_ him touching you. I don’t want _anyone_ touching you—”

Alastair raises his hands, the palms flat and facing him. He shakes his head slowly, speaking as if it’s a warning. “Don’t, Kev. Just _don’t_.”

He doesn’t heed it though. “I know you’re not _mine_ … and I have no right saying this but… If you want sex, you come to _me_.”

The hands drop and Alastair scoffs. In the minute that follows he expects Alastair to bring up the fact that he’s the one to shun and withdraw any offers for sexual company. If that is his grievance, it will be his defence. But it’s not… and that confounds Kevin completely. So why had Alastair gone to Joe?

He wets his lips in the single swipe of his tongue and turns to face the open window. He’s afraid to speak because there’s the possibility that he’ll get an answer he doesn’t want. But if he doesn’t ask, he’ll never know. And never knowing is something he can’t live with. Even _if_ he someone manages to convince Alastair to come back to him, as it were, there would always be something in the back of his mind wondering if or when the Captain will revert to entertaining others.

“Tell me you want him more. Tell me you enjoy him more and I’ll just… leave you be.”

Kevin speaks softly, still not looking at Alastair. He clenches his fists on his lap as he waits for a response. Nothing comes and he dares to glance out of the corner of his eye. Alastair is sat rod-straight in the chair, picking at his nails and chewing his bottom lip. He’s thinking about it.

The fact he’s thinking about it is infuriating and exhilarating in equal measures. Stoking his ego, Kevin dares to put a little more of that smug conceit Alastair had always enjoyed into his approach.

“Tell me he’s better than me.”

Those dark eyes flick up to meet his momentarily before darting to the side like he hadn’t intended on being caught. “He’s…different.”

“Does he make you feel as good?”

A tiny smile pulls at the very extreme corner of Alastair’s mouth and it’s evident he’s fighting it. But it spreads to a grin and that spreads to his near-black eyes. “Nowhere near.”

Kevin raises an eyebrow, containing his glee but unable to stem his confidence. “Does he make you smile? Does he spoil you? Does he play with you and make you happy?” maybe it’s too much, and maybe it’s just presumptuous, but the smiles Alastair had given him, those cloudy-eyed looks when they were alone were of true content and delight. Kevin has never seen them elsewhere, even when watching the man with his best friends. For him, it had made the sex all the more enjoyable and from the way Alastair had showed no signs of wanting to stop until they had, he must feel the same.

“Not like—” he stops himself and chuckles because he knows he’s only digging himself into a deeper hole. The more he dishes out this gratification to Kevin, the more cocky he’ll get and hopefully he himself will be more open to resuming what they had. “You are such a dick.”

"Yes," Kevin grins, leaning back with his arms propping him up. It pulls his shirt taut across his chest, and when he curls his fingers, his biceps flex and he sees how it captures Alastair’s attention. Whatever Joe has, it’s nothing like him and he _knows_ Alastair adores his physical form as much as his personality. Those soft, full lips had spent so much time kissing and sucking and simply _appreciating_ his body. “The worst.”

Alastair quietly scoffs. It’s like nothing’s changed; that the last couple weeks have never happened. But they have, because they’re sitting with 6 feet between them and for everything that he’s said, Kevin’s unsure and cautious of bridging it. The Captain has yet to say he’s willing to have him again.

“I’ve missed—” Alastair groans and rolls his head on his shoulders like he’s about to willingly do something stupid. Something stupid like starting an affair with a married man. Kevin hopes so, anyway. “I’ve missed being friends, Kev. Friends who have really great, fucking amazing sex.”


	13. Chapter 13

Alastair opens the first test in Brisbane, the huge and daunting Gabba, with a century. Kevin sits enraptured and grinning. He’s ever-ready for when he will be needed at any stage, but he hopes beyond hope that he will not be. As fun as it is to stand opposite him, Kevin enjoys this. Watching, analysing and appreciating the beauty of every technically perfect stroke. He lets them have their effect on him despite Alastair’s request that they keep their _affair_ out of the dressing room. Kevin’s come to think that’s more to do with the ever-present snorts and glowers of Graeme and Jimmy than discretion or professionalism. That had certainly not affected them in India where they had played well in their forms of the game.

The night he fought with Joe, they had fallen back onto the bed together and laid there simply kissing. Kevin indulged himself with the things he’d missed, those things that seeing Stuart and Steven had made him want again. And like that pair, his hands roamed but did not plunder. No matter how much Alastair wriggled and tried to pull their shirts off, the South African was determined to just kiss. They rolled around on the mattress, rocking slowly together, groaning and grinning and Alastair kept on murmuring “I’ve missed this. I’ve missed this so much,” into his chin.

He didn’t stay the night though. No matter how much Kevin tried to convince him, and refused to let go, Alastair griped, explaining that he’d left the lights on in his room and his phone was left charging, and he didn’t have any clothes to wear the following morning.

In the end, Kevin had huffed and thrown himself back on the bed, waving Alastair away with one, petulantly sulking, hand. Perhaps it is just too soon to jump back into the deep end with its murky waters that distort the line between what they have and what they are trying to avoid. Perhaps they were still going to ‘spend some time apart’, but do it right this time.

The following morning though, everything returned to how it had been weeks ago. Only with the adjusted rules of behaving properly when working and ignoring everything to do with Swann and Anderson.

Kevin doesn’t get to bat that day. Some might think that would annoy or vex him, but as long as they beat the Australians, he’s glad not to be needed. He’s glad to sit back and watch Alastair and Jonathan amble off the field together, smiling but not smiling too much to be labelled as arrogant or smug by the press hanging around every corner. Instead, all Kevin feels is pride. Pride for the badge on his chest and pride for that handsome brunette he’d woken up beside that morning.

And that pride twists into latent want as he sits and watches Alastair in the shower. He watches as hours under the blistering sun and the constant stress of concentration rinse off that flawlessly lithe body. He recalls a time he’d woken to find the Captain already up and in the shower, and snuck in behind him. How warm he had been, as much on the outside as in, contrasting the cool of the tiles against his palms as they fucked hard and deeply.

Kevin glances to the door. It’s shut and the shower’s loud enough that no one will interrupt. Not that anyone would come in here unless they’re being looked for. They’ve got at least 20 minutes. That’s plenty of time.

Smirking, Kevin pushes himself up and the movement must catch Alastair’s eye because he hears a sigh come from behind the glass partition.

“Which part of ‘ _not at work_ ’ eludes you, Kev?”

His expression does not falter and he presses his hands against the misty glass door that separates them. Alastair turns, his fringe plastered to his forehead and hanging just slightly into his eyes. Somehow it only exaggerates the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw and Kevin licks his lips, that latent want waking with eagerness. “The justification?”

Alastair chuckles, rolling his eyes and continues showering. He doesn’t make a show of it, doesn’t _tease_ , but Kevin still leers all the same. He doesn’t think he’ll ever find that body unattractive now. It’s utter lunacy to think he had once been indifferent to it. It’s utter lunacy to think that he had once been indifferent to Alastair on the whole. They got on well enough and respected each other, as far as he knew at the time, but Kevin would never have called him a _close friend_. He doesn’t know why not and can’t help but think that they’ve wasted time not forging a friendship like this sooner.

Maybe if they had, they would’ve been _friends_ without having an affair. Maybe they wouldn’t have if Alastair’s attraction to him remained unchanged and undying. Maybe they would’ve started the affair a long time ago. Kevin’s not the type to dwell on the past, only be grateful for what they have now and look forwards to the future. If the rest of the tour goes like today did, then it will be the most fun he’s had in years.

He smiles, sliding his hands down the shower door and standing back on his heels. The heat from the shower creates a mist that clings to him, working with the air con to cool him from Queensland’s tropical heat.

“You played quite well today,” Kevin says, bored with the silence and feeling a little awkward stood staring at the Captain whilst his mind wanders.

Alastair hums dismissively and then the shower shuts off. The door opens and he steps out, dripping wet, flushed and Kevin’s focus shamelessly falls to his shining musculature. “Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere, KP.”

Scoffing, simply because Kevin doesn’t think he’s _flattered_ anyone in his life, he reaches for a towel and hands it over. He’s too honest for hollow comments. If someone makes a mistake or plays in a way he does not see the best, or even out of character, he’ll say. The simple fact is, Alastair _had_ played well – more than just the runs that remain against his name, but his positivity, confidence and finesse. Perhaps he could have hit the ball a little more cleanly, angled the bat to find the wider gap, or chased a few more wides for dangerous boundaries, but they can talk about it all later.

He smiles, nonetheless, watching Alastair towel off the worst of the water.  “Alright then, I enjoyed watching you play.”

“Don’t you always?”

Kevin laughs and turns to sit back down on the edge of one of the icebaths. “ _Now_ who’s cocky?”

Alastair’s lips twist upwards just slightly in a smirk. “I must be spending far too much time with you,” he says and then ruffles his hair dry.

“The evidence seems to suggest,” Kevin grins and it has _nothing_ to do with the fact Alastair’s discarded the towel and dresses in front of him without a hint of modesty. That thing vanished, it seems, the moment they first kissed. He can’t wait to be back at the hotel. “That the more time you spend with me, the better you play.”

“Really?”

Kevin hums and crosses his arms like he’s speaking with some authority. He could say anything at all and still know that he won’t be spending the night alone. Alastair’s a superstitious creature, like a lot of the team, and will repeat last night in the hopes of repeating today tomorrow.

The Captain chuckles as he pulls on his shirt. “Can’t argue with that.”

\--

The moment Kevin hangs up from talking to his wife, as if he somehow knew, Alastair knocks on the door. He leaves his phone on the bed and switches on some music on his way over to answer. Opening it is like an assault to the senses. The corridor is alive with commotion: laughing and sparring, Alastair’s grinning at him and smelling of that fresh cologne he had bought him.

They had won the Test – the first at the Gabba in _forever_ it seems – and Kevin had been waiting to start their celebrations. He had dressed for the occasion, wearing shorts and nothing else but his ever-present necklace.

Alastair invites himself in, sliding past and making no advances. He’s frustratingly dressed in a blue plait shirt and stone-washed jeans. Both neatly pressed and crisp. Going out clothes, rather than staying-in-and-on-the-floor.

Kevin frowns, letting the door shut again as he turns. Here the Captain is, dressed up like he has no intention of staying, yet wearing the fragrance which he only really wears when he’s around Kevin.

Seeing his confusion, Alastair chuckles and jams his hands into his pockets. Probably because he needs to keep them from wandering, following the path his eyes are taking down Kevin’s torso. “You need to get dressed, because _we_ are going out for dinner.”

“…me and you?”

“Yes?” Alastair replies, bemused and then scoffs quietly. Momentarily, Kevin wonders if he’s lost his mind, high off the success of doing something no English Captain’s done in so long. They can’t risk being seen out together. Once upon a time, maybe, but not now with the way Alastair looks at him and Kevin knows he’s not without fault. People could hear something, or… just anything could head them straight for a disaster. “We’re going with Grae and Jim.”

Kevin’s mental panic stalls and he stares at the man, now truly believing him insane. The only evenings he’s ever spent with those two have been as a large group, where there was plenty of more desirable company. And now, after all those two had done, putting that wedge between them, Alastair wants him to socialise with them. “Ali, I don’t—”

“Shut up,” the Englishman sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns around and swiftly picks through a pile of shirts Kevin had left on the sideboard. It’s a clear message that Kevin can only groan at and card his hand through his hair like a petulant child.

He finds a fresh pair of jeans and digs out some casual shoes before pulling them all on with the first pair of socks he grabs. The entire time he scowls. And continues scowling as Alastair hands him the black shirt he’s chosen. There’s nothing particularly eye-catching about it other than a v-neck that’s deep enough to show a little more chest that usual. Alastair’s own shirt has a few buttons undone which constantly reminds Kevin of what they _should_ be doing. And now he’ll have to spend an evening waiting and longing whilst enduring bowling pair.

“Please _try_ to be civil,” Alastair says and it’s surprisingly soft. “Swanny’s no doubt going to be a dick, but… I want you to be friends. To some degree, at least.”

Kevin twist his lips as he pulls the shirt over his head and smoothes it down. He doesn’t miss how despite his seriousness, Alastair’s eyes are drawn to his collarbone and he smiles wistfully.

“You have no idea what it’s like having to choose between the two of you all the time. The jealous, snarky shit… it’s like school. It’s _worse_ than school. Kids aren’t so pathetic.”

“Aww, Baby, you say the sweetest things!”

Alastair just stares as him as he playfully wraps his arms around that lean waist and pulls him closer. A tiny smile tugs at the corners of his mouth but he refuses to give into it. He refuses to give into Kevin’s teasing, and bends like he’s forced to and not like he wants to be close. “I mean it, Kev. And this’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

It’s ambiguous, but the South African knows what he means. Spending time with the pair, they would then be able to see that they are _not_ in love. He smiles, sliding one hand up to cup around Alastair’s neck, stroking his jaw with his thumb. “And will I get a reward for good behaviour?”

“Assuming you don’t kill each other,” Alastair is absolutely unfazed by Kevin’s hold and continues to stare at him with the same flat determination as he does when giving orders in the dressing room. But then he smiles just a little, far more coy than genuinely amused. “I don’t see why we should be in any particular rush to get out of bed tomorrow.”

\--

The way Kevin and Alastair take a taxi to whatever restaurant the Captain has picked gives him the impression that Jimmy and Graeme are going to be as surprised as he was. It does not lighten Kevin’s mood whatsoever. He can imagine Swann’s face already, and the hostility that would surely come from being so horribly inconvenienced. Anderson would be no better.

Alastair picks up on his apprehension – it’s hardly a subtle thing when he’s huffing and scowling through the window as the city passes them by – and rolls his eyes. Either he’s not expecting the fall out, or he thinks he’ll be excluded from it, or he’s just used to his friends. Kevin does think the latter most likely. He’s not been blind since they got here, since Alastair started sleeping in his bed again. The bowling pair might not have approached _him_ since Graeme spilled the beans on Freddie, but they have been making comments to Alastair. Comments that Kevin saw him brush off, or laugh off, or swat away irritably. The Englishman never tells him what they were. In a way, he doesn’t have to.

They end up in a Korean Restaurant which isn’t especially busy. A few people look up from their table-top barbecues and stare or glower as the hostess ushers them towards the back of the establishment before anyone can get up and ask for autographs.

Kevin hears the pair before he sees them. It’s impossible not to. Swann is laughing and the closer they get, he can hear Jimmy’s grumbles. The South African takes a deep breath and tries to catch and contain his tongue for whatever Graeme is going to say. He promised to be _civil_ , and Alastair will surely reward him with a lonely night if he breaks that promise.

The hostess turns and smiles as she presents the table, utterly professional as if she doesn’t know who they are and is immune to attractive men.  Alastair thanks her and sends her off and makes to slide down into the booth.

“Cooky!” Graeme cries, grinning like he hadn’t spent most of the day stood at Slip with him. Then he sees Kevin as he rounds the wooden partition to the booth and sits next to the Captain. First comes the frown, the narrow and sharp slate-blue eyes and then the “You brought _him?_ ”

“Yes,” Alastair grins, tone completely amicable and dismissive of his friend’s negativity. “Any problems?”

Kevin looks across at the pair. Swann looks at Jimmy, who simply glances at Alastair and blinks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. Both of them really refuse to acknowledge him, sharing some secret conversation in nothing just glances and maybe under-the-table gestures. Alastair pays them no attention, simply pleased that there were no protests, and reaches for the drinks menu.

He places it on the table between them so Kevin can look as well. The gesture is sweet, somewhat unexpected and the South African smiles as he gently puts one hand on Alastair’s knee. Though he glances out of the corner of his eye with a wry sort of twist to his lips, he says nothing and Kevin takes that as permission to rub his thumb in little circles against the bone.

Kevin hears muttering from across the table and frowns over the top to find Jimmy mouthing _I know_. Gritting his teeth, Kevin studies the wine list as Alastair simply peruses, moving his leg towards Kevin in the hopes that the suddenly-tighter grasp will lessen. It takes every ounce of Kevin’s self control to not slam down the menu and demand that they spit it out, whatever they have against them. Whatever complete lack of trust they seem to have in their friend that Alastair either ignores or is ignorant of.

“So, KP, how’s the wife?”

Kevin purses his lips and lets his hand fall heavy from the Captain’s knee. He balls it into a fist. Guilt bubbles up, fresh and livid. Never once – since the affair got ‘serious’ – had either of them mentioned their marriages, so it was like they could forget them for that time. Kevin knows that in itself is horribly, disgustingly wrong, but being reminded of his beautiful wife and his beautiful son whilst out for dinner with another man, with the promise of sex to follow, is worse.

“ _Be civil_ ,” Alastair murmurs like a simple suggestion and slides the menu back across to himself.

“She’s good, thank you,” Kevin replies with a smile he models off a great white shark. After years of derogatory treatment from other players to the press, it’s a front he’s used to performing. Hopefully, if he keeps it quick and simple, not giving into Swann’s taunts then the Spinner will lose interest. Alastair was right, this is worse than school.

Graeme doesn’t take the hint. In fact, he seems to take it as bait and grins. “What does she think about you and Ali?” he asks and if Kevin isn’t mistaken, it sounds something like a threat. A threat that should the affair continue beyond what they can tolerate, Jessica will find out, but Kevin can’t believe that. It would affect Alastair and his marriage just as much. “Assuming she knows you go for cock now?”

Graeme yelps and jolts, snapping his head and gawp indignantly at his Lancastrian friend who just stares at him, thick brows knitted in the middle of his forehead. “What the fuck?!”

“You’re being a dick.”

Clearing his throat, Alastair replaces the drinks menu and rests his head back against the wooden lattice that tops the bench they sit on. “I’m assuming you two have decided what you’re having already?”

Graeme grumbles something under his breath that sounds sardonic enough that Kevin doesn’t have to know what it is to purse his lips together tightly. Jimmy replies to the question, saying it’s a bit _get what you’re given_.

What they’re given doesn’t take long to arrive. The table practically heaves under the weight of the meat and its marinades. It all smells amazing and Kevin starts to not mind about the company. Alastair is tight to his side and Anderson keeps the worst of Graeme’s jibes disciplined. The bowler doesn’t go without his own, though. His wit is as sharp as his tone and Alastair just glowers at him, like he expects better from his friend.

The Captain turns to grin at him when the waitresses finally stop bringing out the food. “You’re elected cook, Mr. BBQ.”

“ _Braai_ ,” Kevin chuckles as he corrects, twisting his head around to reply with a bemused expression. The minute he sees the mirth in that face, he all but forgets the pair across the table. Despite the atmosphere of two predators constantly waiting for an opening of weakness, he’s _happy_. If they were anywhere but in public – even _with_ Swann and Anderson – Kevin would reach to take that face and maybe kiss it. Then he thinks _no_ , he wouldn’t because the whole point is to convince the bowling pair that they’re just friends.

“Only one _chef_ here,” he says, flicking Alastair’s nose and choosing to ignore the muttered ‘ _give me strength’_ from their companions. He picks up a pair of chopsticks regardless to put the first strips of meat on the smoking grill on the table. It hisses and sears, releasing an utterly mouth-wateringly spicy aroma. “Pay attention, the master is at work.”

Alastair hangs over his shoulder, watching intently and Kevin tries to hide his amusement. He supposes there’s not much call for barbecues on farms, whilst this was a massive part of his upbringing. The Englishman helps, passing things over and around the table whilst keeping the conversation going as he concentrates and the bowlers squabble between themselves. And somewhere between it all, it starts to feel _normal_.

Either they’re hungry or bored, but Graeme and Jimmy cease their barrage of comments. In fact a few of their utterances feel suspiciously like compliments. They eat happily, thanking for what ends up on their plates. Acting civil becomes less of a chore, although he does have to grit his teeth, concealing an age-old insecurity when Swann laughs that he shouldn’t be in the England Squad because he’s obviously still too South African, because it’s well known that no British man knows how to barbecue a steak. But Jimmy grunts, elbowing him in the side, which makes Kevin wonder if it was a jibe at the Lancastrian and not him. Jokes towards the country of his birth have never been something Graeme’s really relied on, being too acrid and surprisingly sensible to attack almost half their teammates.

Towards the end of the meal, and the end of the bottle of wine Alastair had chosen, Kevin excuses himself to go to the bathroom. He’s there for a few minutes before the door opens. A part of him thinks it might be Alastair, because he had gotten into the habit of looking up in the mirror and seeing that face behind him, still in training gear or their whites. The rational part of him supposes it’ll just be a stranger, or some autograph hunter he’ll shake off because now really isn’t the time to be handling sharpies and mini bats.

It’s Jimmy who comes to stand beside him. Kevin tenses, expecting something that just doesn’t come. For a while it’s like they’re just two men who don’t know each other and following toilet etiquette, don’t even acknowledge one another. Then Jimmy inhales and wets his lips.

“Cooky means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”

Another question Kevin should have been expecting blindsides him. At least in Jimmy’s voice, it’s not as accusatory as Swann’s approach had been. And unlike that question, the South African doesn’t even have to take a while to come to a certain answer. He hums his affirmation. Denying it is pointless and stupid and an outright lie. Alastair’s current success makes him happy. Very little appeals more than that man’s smile. There’s no guilt in it. Kevin feels the same with all his friends. If they don’t mean a lot to him, then they wouldn’t be his friends. Kevin doesn’t do things by half-measures.

“Swanny said he told you about Flintoff,” Anderson continues and there’s virtually no emotion in his voice. Not knowing if he’s meant to say anything or not, but not wanting to even if he is, Kevin just twists his lips and stares at the white tiles on the wall. “Don’t make the same mistake he did.”

Kevin glances to the brunette as the first hint of menace colours his words. Of the two bowlers, he definitely feels like Anderson is the bigger threat. Behind those hazel eyes many things could be brewing and festering whilst Swann is more bark than bite. His bite is still sharp and painful, but Jimmy’s the type to ambush and maim.

“We’re not _in love_ , Jim,” Kevin laughs off any tension. There shouldn’t even be tension because it’s all nonsensical paranoia. He had come to terms with what is going on, so should they. “Yes, Chef means a lot to me because he’s my friend,” he repeats aloud, “that’s all.”

With a twist to his lips, Anderson meets his gaze and stares for a moment. Kevin wanders what the hell he sees but isn’t quite sure how to articulate the question without either getting an answer he doesn’t want that will ultimately offend him and ruin the evening with sourness, or not getting an answer at all.

“Alright,” the bowler finally says and turns to wash his hands.

Kevin remains stood for a few seconds before rolling his eyes and finishing up himself.


	14. Chapter 14

Kevin wakes to warm, soft lips upon his. There’s no rasp of facial hair apart from what he’s neglected the last couple days and it makes him frown. He’s too asleep to do anything much than lazily raise an inquisitive hand, finding thick but short hair soon between his fingers.

Knowing it’s Alastair, Kevin pulls him towards him as he turns onto his back, fully intending on having him back in bed. He doesn’t know the time, but it feels early. The Captain resists, hands on Kevin’s chest.

He pulls away with a smile, “Get up or you’ll miss breakfast.”

Kevin groans, keeping his hold until Alastair is too far away and his hand falls to hang limply off the side of the bed. When he finally cracks his eyes open, the curtains he remembers closing before Alastair arrived the previous night are open and the nets waver in the breeze coming in through the window.

Alastair is fully dressed in his training kit, fresh faced and completely shaven. Kevin scowls, finding that he doesn’t really like it. The man is still hopelessly attractive, but his face looks more youthful without stubble; more like the teenager he almost was when they first met. That had been the Alastair that was in love with Freddie, he supposes as well. A young and inexperienced cricketer so far from what he is now: mature and smart enough to know exactly what he wants. That is _his_ Alastair, confident and masculine. As he scans every line of flesh-covered bone, he reflects the difference between kissing Alastair and Jessica. The scratch of stubble was one constant reminder and assurance that his mind would never confuse the two.

“What?” Alastair murmurs, unsure as to why he’s being so thoroughly scrutinised and wipes his jaw with his palm like he thinks there’s still cream lingering there.

“You shaved?” Kevin simply replies and tries not to sound sulky about it. But he’s too sleep-worn for it to really work.

“Yes?” his brows furrow but he’s still smiling. “As should you,” Alastair stoops down again, placing one hand on Kevin’s jaw. The South African parts his lips as the thumb brushes over them. Those dark eyes soften, narrowing as Kevin sucks gently. “You’re starting to look like a tramp.”

Kevin raises an eyebrow, biting down on that thumb teasingly.

“A devilishly handsome tramp,” Alastair corrects himself, still grinning and pulls his thumb out for safety’s sake. “But a tramp nonetheless.”

Scoffing, the South African lethargically slides from between the sheets. Alastair perches on the arm of a chair as he walks, unabashed in his nakedness, into the bathroom. A quick glance at the clock says they’ve got a while until breakfast, contrary to what the Captain had said. Enough time for him to treat the worst of the stubble growing on his face. Not because of what Alastair had said – he is somewhat _fond_ of the look – but because it itches against the strap of his batting helmet.

When he starts the electric trimmer, he can hear Alastair’s chuckle from within the room and rolls his eyes. He paces backwards, peering around the door to find the man laying on his side on the bed with one of the few books he’d left here open in front of him. Kevin smiles, blindly working away at the hair on his face, and reflects on just how much this is like that first night they shared a room. It had been two beds back then, and in no way did Alastair look as calm and comfortable. He could almost laugh at himself and his ignorance… and be somewhat grateful that Alastair’s never once thought to comment on it and embarrass him. How Kevin had made such a big thing about not wanting to share a room and certainly _forbidding_ the Englishman for coming anywhere near him, yet he was the one last night that had dragged Cook to bed.

Alastair notices his gaze and flicks his eyes up, his lips curled in bemusement. He says nothing. Kevin dips his head and returns back to the sink, glad with the lack of enquiry. Turning off the trimmer, he surveys his work and starts to wash his face.

“I was thinking,” comes the Captain’s voice after a minute. It’s tentative, like Alastair isn’t really sure of what he’s saying at all. Or he knows what the answer is going to be, and it’s one he doesn’t exactly favour. Curiosity piqued, he walks back to the door again, foaming his facewash on his cheeks, to peek around the door.

Alastair’s smiling, but there’s something shy and unsure in his eyes. He glances down to his book and closes it. Kevin feels like this is going to be serious and slides his hands along his jaw to steeple in front of his frowning mouth. “Do you want to do something tonight?”

“…like…what?”

The Captain shrugs. “Thought you might have some suggestions?”

Humming like he’s thinking of an answer, though he’s really still contemplating saying yes no matter what is proposed, Kevin walks back to the sink to finish the job of washing. But why should he have to deliberate his decision? Friends go out all the time. And he had spent so long only a little while ago lamenting how Alastair wasn’t spending any time with him, and now Alastair is directly asking to. Kevin smiles to his reflection, rinsing his face and grabbing the towel.

“One request,” he calls as he pats his face dry. The Captain hums an inquiry from the bedroom. “No Swann and no Anderson.”

Alastair chuckles and Kevin hears the rustle of him getting up and momentarily thinks of the mornings he wakes first and comes into the bathroom, and how he would listen to the little noises Alastair makes as he rouses and how he slides from the sheets to come and lazily press himself against Kevin’s back as he washes. Instead Alastair just walks in and perches on the edge of the bath, his fingers curling into the gap between the white tub and the wooden façade.

“You still haven’t forgiven me entirely for that, have you?”

Kevin glances at Alastair’s reflection before him and reaches for his moisturiser. “It wasn’t so bad,” he replies, still unwilling to say that he had ended up enjoying it. Still not something he’d like to partake in regularly, but hardly the teeth-pulling that he had expected. Since then, Jimmy at least has been less hostile and has more active elbows when it comes to Graeme’s remarks. Kevin has come to think it’s because they convinced the fast bowler the truth – that they are just friends. Swann’s still too blind to see it.

“Depending on the results of the next test,” the Captain taps his fingers against the varnished wood to a beat Kevin thinks he recognises but can’t quite place. “We might go out with them again? Swanny said it was good to have a decent steak, which I think means he enjoyed your company?”

Kevin scoffs, rubbing the cream into his skin. The beat of Alastair’s fingers comes together and he recognises it as _Jerusalem_ and laughs again. They’ve got a couple more weeks of hearing that come in a soul-lifting although out-of-key chorus. He has no idea why Alastair plays it mentally now, unless it’s a habit he’s picked up to calm him down under pressure. Or maybe it’s just playing in the back of his head and it’s simply a subconscious thing.

“I thought the main idea was to _want_ to win?” he chuckles and sees Alastair roll his eyes. The man then stands and paces closer, looping his arms around Kevin’s waist.

It’s then that the South African remembers that he’s still naked. But Alastair doesn’t react, simply placing his hands over the indents of his pelvis and his chin on his shoulder. Because Alastair is dressed, he’s much warmer than the air had been and Kevin’s body instinctively moves to be closer to him.

“Do you want to do something tonight?” he repeats quietly, a little more unsure after their digression. Kevin turns in the embrace upon seeing Alastair’s apprehension in the mirror. He can’t help but smile, knowing how he really must want to go out. His best friends would never say no to him, yet he still asks Kevin.

Slinging his arms around Alastair’s neck, he pulls him down to kiss his forehead. “I said yes, didn’t I?”

\--

Kevin overhears Eoin and Steven chatting as they stand beside the net he bats in. At first he pays them no attention; simply using the sound of their voices to hone his concentration. That gets harder when Broad joins in and starts making loud, brash comments. Kevin listens in and releases they’re talking about going ten-pin-bowling. He raises a hand to signal for the bowling machine to be stopped and turns to the younger trio.

“Is this an invitation-only outing?”

Stuart glances at him first, a little frown on his face – probably just because of the eavesdropping, whilst Finn grins and Eoin just leans back on his bat in his usual cat-like nonchalance.  “Captain permitting,” the blonde says. The frown turns into an amused little smile that makes Kevin’s lips twist into a scowl. If they think he gets preferential treatment they are definitely mistaken. Apart from glimmers of mischief out in the middle that never amount to anything until they’re back at the hotel, as soon as they reach the grounds, it’s like Alastair becomes a completely different person. Things go back to the way they had been months ago: two nearly-friends who work together and nothing more.

It’s just as much a dig at Alastair’s professionalism as it is Kevin’s supposed self-importance, both of which annoy him but he knows Stuart and Alastair have always been something of rivals; both talented and ambitious. If he doesn’t faze Cook, then why should it faze him?

Eoin breaks the silence, looking with his own smile to Kevin behind his helmet. “We’re leaving at six,”

“And Andy’s said only a couple pints each,” Steven finishes and looks to Stuart as if for affirmation. Before, it would have just been _puppy-like_ , but now Kevin just remembers that night the bowlers had forgotten about him in the shadows. He finds himself frowning just a little, fascinated with the way they can love so openly in a similar way he supposes a caged bird feels watching its kind outside.

Turning back, he gestures for the machine to start back up again, buckling down to put in the hard work to deserve a night out. Between balls he glances towards the young seamers that remain near by. Eoin has wandered off, leaving the pair muttering and laughing. Even if they notice his attention, they don’t react to it. And why should they? It’s been a while since he had unintentionally witnessed them and he has yet to tell a soul. Kevin wonders just who else knows. He’ll admit he’s hopeless at figuring this sort of thing out and he can’t believe he never saw the pair as a _couple_ before, but he’s never heard any remarks or taunts as there had been for Alastair, back in the days of his promiscuousness. He doesn’t doubt that Eoin knows, and maybe even Alastair. To be trusted on a par with those two… the thought surprises Kevin enough that he finds himself staring at the tall bowlers with that former fascination again.

“KP? You okay?”

“Huh?” he jerks around to see his batting coach leaning against the bowling machine with his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. Kevin grunts to clear his throat and effectively focus himself again. “Yeah. Turn the speed up.”

\--

At quarter to six, Kevin’s just finishing preening himself in the bathroom mirror. He’s frightfully vain at times and spends an age fiddling with his hair. Alastair said he likes it spiked, yet no so much that it’s sticky or too hard to run his fingers through. Kevin’s conscious to do all the little things that will make the Captain unable to refuse him when they get back to the hotel. He wears a tight shirt like those that Alastair has picked out for him in the past; like those that Alastair almost _always_ runs his hands over when no one’s looking. His clavicle and biceps visible, all he asks for in return is the odd glimpse of a toned stomach or when Alastair bends over, for his jeans to hang just a little bit low.

He finds himself smiling in the mirror, seeing the image so clear in his mind. Fielding practise that day, Alastair had thrown himself around with grim determination. Concentration seemed so exaggerated on a face half-concealed by sunglasses; where the angles of his jaw are so much more pronounced. Kevin watched him from the sidelines when he stopped for a drink. The focus and muscles should have reminded him of the sex they had the night before, as he had been in India, but instead he quite innocently admired Alastair’s strength and ability.

He thought of how far the Englishman has come from the sociable yet painfully reserved near-teen called up whilst the team was reeling from losing some of its most important players. Kevin wondered if Flintoff had anything to do with it, whether he took Alastair under his wing and taught him to open up and whether if that is why Alastair fell in love with him. He can’t resent his old friend and former teammate for such things... if it made the Captain the way he is today then maybe Kevin should thank him... but he also can’t stop thinking of what Graeme had said: that Freddie had broken that most delicate of hearts. Sometimes he wants to know how and why, but he knows he’ll never ask Alastair. It’s not his place as much as he has no right to know.

The knock on the door jerks him out of his reverie. It’s a plain and sharp knock of anyone but Alastair, whom he had been half expecting to pick him up on his way down to meet Eoin, Stuart and Steve. The Englishman had been amused at his proposition but keenly accepted it. Maybe because they are all in the same boat more or less, with the latter two in a seeming relationship and Eoin knowing what the back of Alastair’s throat feels like. Away from cameras and in the company of kindred spirits, they could be themselves

It’s Matt at the door with a scowling Stuart leaning against the wall behind him. The blonde is crisply dressed and from his unchanging expression, Kevin immediately thinks that maybe he’s decided against inviting him along and Matt is here to tell him so. Sometimes the wicketkeeper is like Stuart’s bulldog, biting and growling and ever-so-happy to do anything asked of him.

Kevin purses his lips, glowering over to Stuart who pays him no attention. He’s just about to demand a reason when Matt finally speaks.

“Andy’s called a meeting.”

With a frown, Kevin glances to the young bowler again. He realises that were this about him, Stuart would be stood there sneering at him or something equally as irritating, not lost in his own little world that obviously conspires against him.

“What’ve I done this time?”

“Not you,” Matt grumbles and takes a step back so Kevin can join them in the corridor. He flicks the light off in the room, leaving everything he’ll need inside and hoping this meeting will be over soon so that they can all still carry out their plans for the evening. The next test starts in two days. This is something of stag night, expelling all wildness and energy so that they can dedicate themselves wholly to the next struggle.

Frowning as he shuts the door, Kevin turns to see the friends already halfway down the corridor. The room they use for meetings is at the very bottom and some of their other teammates wait outside of it with their hands in their pockets. The closer he gets, Kevin can hear shouting in that stern Zimbabwean accent. It’s like walking through his school again, sneaking down the corridor with his friends to hear what’s being said in the headmaster’s office.

Approaching the room, Kevin peers through the open doorway. Alastair stands beside Andy, severe in his silence and posture. His strong arms are crossed tightly over his chest and he looks down at those who are receiving the reprimand. Kevin easily recognises the expression as disappointment. It’s a crushing thing to have directed at a person. Alastair is the type to always try to see the best in people, to believe in and encourage them. Pity and curiosity is the only thing Kevin really feels now.

The general gist of what Andy says is of irresponsibility and stupidity and then the usual issues of respect and dignity. Kevin hangs his head back on his shoulders in a display of boredom before getting an elbow in the ribs from Jonathan, who’s always tried to keep him out of the worst of trouble he seems so adept to get himself into.

“Get them in here.”

The door finally opens all the way and Alastair gestures for them all to enter with a quick gesture of his hand. Kevin makes sure he’s one of the last in so that most of the room is taken up and he can stand besides the Captain as he usually does. If anyone remarks he says it’s because he’s one of the most senior team members, though it’s mostly because from this angle, it’s hard for Andy to look at him and make him feel like he’s being wrongly accused – which is just one more thing that grates on his nerves enough to inspire misbehaviour.

It’s Joe, Gary and Alex that sit like sacrificial lambs in the centre of the room, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. There’s the red flush that always takes to Gary’s skin when he’s been drinking, all the way down to his chest that is exaggerated by his embarrassment. Joe’s blue eyes are hazy and there are bits of feathers poking out from the tousled mess of his hair. Hot pink lipstick clings to the corners of Alex’s mouth, yet too much to be transference from kisses. All three of them are sloppily dressed, like their clothes had been flung on in a drunken frenzy.

“I know that some of you had plans to go out this evening,” Andy says and readjusts the fold of his arms. The way he speaks in past tense makes Kevin grit his teeth and when he glances across the room, he sees that Stuart’s expression is even fouler than it had been before.  “You can thank these three for me no longer being able to allow you to.”

A chorus of indignity rings out briefly but everyone knows better than to argue. Kevin’s the only one who’s ever tried but before he can get his tongue into gear, the Captain turns his head and gently shakes it, pursing his lips like even he has resigned to the punishment despite his excitement earlier.

Nonetheless, that slightest of protests seems to be like a mutiny to the coach. Kevin is glad he can barely see him at this angle because he would definitely say something. People accuse _him_ of being tetchy and highly strung... they know _nothing_.

“I wish I could trust you all, but because of the _few_ ,” Andy says and the three on the floor all look sheepishly at each other like they’re looking for someone to blame but they all know they’re all equally partisan. “I can’t afford to take the risk.”

The next few minutes pass Kevin by in a haze as he fights being overcome by his rage. At least being the last in means he can be the first out. He leaves everyone behind with his long paces, immediately shutting himself into his room. Here he can fester for the evening, seething over the ridiculous setup of this team alone. Andy had ordered them all back to their rooms where they would stay and ponder what exactly it means for them to play for their country.

He wouldn’t put it past the coach to do sporadic checks on everyone, just like in border school. It’s easy to picture the man stalking down corridors, sniffing out the slightest air of someone’s cologne to chase down where they had gotten to. Kevin throws himself down on the bed and it’s a sigh that slips from him rather than the expected growl. Taking a moment to think of a something other than that underlying dislike of their coach, he finds that the only reason he feels so passionately about the situation is his own disappointment.  A little while ago he had been picking through things to wear, thinking of the evening he would spend with his friends; thinking of what he and Alastair could do when they got back here and instead he finds himself alone with all that stripped from him.

Andy may be many things but Kevin can never really accuse him of being unprofessional. He might take his job too seriously at times, or be too controlling for his liking, but never once had the man publicised whatever it was that Joe, Gary and Alex had done that had offended him so. Perhaps that is just one more reason for Kevin’s tempestuous mood. He likes answers, needs them, craves them as justification for something he sees as an injustice. Maybe Andy is completely right in his actions, but maybe he’s not and he’s just ruined the evening for them all for a ridiculous reason.

Kevin doesn’t allow himself to wallow in supposition and misery. He gets up, puts some music on and scans the room service menu for anything he fancies. There’s nothing. He had plans of sneaking something sugary whilst they were out, so all that he can think of is sherbet candies and popcorn. Most of the sweet things on the menu are fruits he can’t possibly hope to guess what country they come from.

After a while, he sits on his bed and slumps backwards. The sun is just at the right level in its descent to be almost parallel to his window and almost blinding when he turns to gaze out of the window. He can’t even bring himself to look at the clock and see how long he _hasn’t_ been here. Knowing himself and his restlessness it might have only been half an hour and he can’t bear confirming that he’s got _hours_ left until he’ll go to bed. If he isn’t driven mad beforehand. He had seen a quarantined leopard once in a safari park, and how it had prowled, endlessly, untiringly, the perimeter of its enclosure. He had thought it tragic then… now he would set the cat free.

Ordinarily Kevin would ring his wife when he finds himself at a loose end. But he’s only at the loose end because of those quashed plans that would have never existed and matter so much if Alastair hadn’t invited him to do something that morning. And Jessica would only pick up on the disappointment in his voice and inquire and Kevin would only get snappy as he avoids lying yet never going to tell a shred of the truth because it’s all _Alastair_.

Groaning as that leopard had groaned in its 12foot square marathon, Kevin rolls over and turns his music up before deciding that watching the sun set over Adelaide might pass the time.


End file.
